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The Quality of Mercy 


The Quality of Mercy 



THE TORCH PRESS 
CEDAR RAPIDS IOWA 



Copyrighted 1924 by 
Allen Jacobs 


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CEDAR RAPIDS 
IOWA 



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The Quality of Mercy 

i 

Doctor Calory, rector of the Church Around the 
Corner, was suddenly interrupted while his ice-cream 
cone was on the way to his mouth. Not being accustomed 
to such arbitrary interference, he scowled. It wasn’t a 
mere placid frown: it was a real scowl. It was a look 
such as he had never given his children, even in their 
most unreasoning and troubling days. 

But his unusually strong partiality for ice-cream 
cones had been growing with the years. He was wont to 
say that like a good play — or a good sermon — they are 
refreshing and not too long drawn-out. 

And he never did like a telephone. He had scarcely 
hung up, however, after answering some very unneces¬ 
sary question as to the hour of Sunday morning service, 
when there came a knock on his study-door. 

His irate invitation to the knocker to enter was almost 
a shout. The life-long servitress of the family briefly 
announced: 

“Mr. Morrison Sayles.” 

“Oh, very well; show him in. And, Nora . . .” 

in a lower tone, almost confiding, “Just put this in the 
ice-box, right side up.” 

Nora took charge of the cold confection without 


6 THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


evidence of surprise, and disappeared. Doctor Calory 
called down the hall, 

“Come in, Mr. Sayles! Well, it’s good to see you 
again, I’m sure! ’ ’ 

Mr. Morrison Sayles shook the rector’s hand with a 
cordial brevity, laid his hat and gloves on the large oak 
table in the center of the room, and with a courtly bow, 
took the deeply comfortable chair indicated by a wave 
of the rector ’s arm. 

1 ‘1 trust you are very well, sir. ’ ’ His voice had some¬ 
thing of the steely ring which so often expresses the suc¬ 
cessful man of big affairs. His face showed character 
and acquaintance with life’s luxuries without surrender 
to them. His mouth and chin spelled determination, 
with an inclination to doggedness. He could not have 
been over fifty-five ; his bearing was that of a man even 
younger. 

“Wonderfully well, thank you. Have some tea, Mr. 
Sayles, We always have it ready by half-past four. 
Bless my soul — it’s after five now! Glad you came 
Wednesday — tomorrow the maid would be out.” The 
old rector chuckled as he pushed a little white button. 
Then, his strongly outlined face growing grave, he said: 

“Up to the time of Mrs. Calory’s death, we had our 
tea together, always in the late afternoon, unless I was 
out making my calls. And even then it would be ready 
just the same, for her and any of the people who came in. 
Lots of them came — have always been coming. Many 
of them I never saw before, and shall never see again. 
So many theatrical folks, too. It was they, you know, 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


7 


who gave us our name — the ‘Church Around the 
Comer’.” 

Nora’s entrance with tea and toast may have caused 
the hesitation in Mr. Sayles ’ reply. After each had been 
served by her with dexterous motions, the financier 
cleared his throat and furrowed his brow. 

“Doctor Calory,” he began, “a moment ago you re¬ 
ferred to the — ah — the theatrical people who have 
been — one might say — so greatly interested in this 
church. It is well known, as you have implied, that be¬ 
cause of an episode in its history, in which members of 
that profession were involved, it became generally known 
as the ‘Church Around the Corner.’ That, of course, 
and the fact that you have officiated at so many — ah — 
weddings of theatrical people, have bestowed on the 
church a kind of notoriety. ’ ’ 

“ ‘Publicity’ is a better word. ” The old rector’s voice 
crackled a little, and his small black eyes snapped. 

‘ ‘ I beg pardon; yes, publicity. Now, as you know, sir, 
with all that I have nothing to do. My duties as warden 
of St. Cyril’s Church take all my spare time. I am not 
presuming to suggest what should or should not be done 
here at the Church of the Trans . . . ” 

“Transformation; that is our real name.” 

“Yes — precisely. Its true name, and a dignified one. 
I would not think, sir, of dictating your policy in the 
slightest degree. And I am not opposed to the drama as 
such. I enjoy a good production of Shakespeare . . .” 

“I saw a bright bit of blank verse in Vanity Fair this 
week,” Doctor Calory broke in with a smile. “Not 



8 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


Thackeray, you know, but the magazine. It ended with 
the words ‘I hate actors — they ruin my evenings!’ I 
agree with the latter part of that sentiment. Only, I 
would say mornings — and Sunday afternoons. I love 
actors: for the last thirty years they have been ruining 
my mornings and Sunday afternoons!’ 9 

‘ ‘ Of course; yes, of course , 9 9 said Mr. Morrison Sayles, 
with a trace of impatience in his clear-cut tones. “They 
come to you, no doubt, with many of their troubles . 9 9 

“Yes — and with many of their joys. But of course 
the problems are there — marital unhappiness, though 
not so often as the outside world would think; more 
often nervous worry or money matters. Many a time I 
have helped a stranded company make the next ‘jump.’ 
Sometimes I have even coached at the rehearsals. The 
stock company over at the Hylerion used to invite me in, 
once or twice a week, to offer suggestions. I considered 
that a great honor, and they declared it helped them. 
I’m sure it helped me in my own speaking and reading. 
But after John Drake came, they didn’t need me. He’s 
a wonder. Best leading man they’ve had. Came here 
from Chicago, and married Helen Merry. I married 
them. Finest couple you’d want to meet. He’s a big 
blonde fellow; fine profile — regular matinee idol. ’ ’ 

Mr. Morrison Sayles’ jaw was firmly set, and the fur¬ 
row between his eyes more deeply marked. 

“Yes,” he said, almost hoarsely; “he has done some 
training of our young people at St. Cyril’s. Dr. Harri¬ 
son calls it ‘social service,’ or ‘community work.’ Per¬ 
haps it is on that order. But I am not a believer in 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


9 


amateur dramatics for the church; and least of all in 
engaging a professional coach. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But he charges nothing, I feel sure, ’ ’ exclaimed Doc¬ 
tor Calory. “It would be very unlike him . . 

“It may be so/’ said Mr. Morrison Sayles, his voice 
vibrating with measured sternness. “But he is a pro¬ 
fessional actor. And I have told Doctor Harrison many 
times that I fail to see why our young people need coach¬ 
ing of that kind; why indeed they should take part in 
theatricals at all. They can see good plays at any time; 
they can practice public speaking by holding debating 
contests; and there are scores of important subjects in 
these days waiting to be discussed. I have asked our 
rector point-blank why we should instill into the minds 
of the young people of St. Cyril’s the ambition to be 
actors and actresses. Excellent tea, sir. No more, I 
thank you. ’ ’ 

“And what does he say to that?” inquired Doctor 
Calory, with very evident interest. 

‘ ‘ He replies only to the effect that it is part of the — 
ah — social work of the church; and that the boys and 
girls, many of whom are earning a living, find relief and 
recreation in this training. He says they are learning 
the best plays; self-confidence, and how to express 
thoughts of other minds, and so on. I confess I cannot 
see it.” 

Mr. Sayles leaned back slightly, tapped both arms of 
the big chair with his fingers once or twice; then in the 
same measured tones he went on: 

“Doctor Calory, I have come here today, not only to 



10 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


pay my respects, but to ask if you will request this — 
John Drake — to give up his work at St, Cyril’s. His 
wife — Miss Merry — is she also not one of your congre¬ 
gation ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes!” replied the old rector. “All the Hylerion 
company attend here on Sunday mornings. A bit late 
sometimes — but I don’t object to that.” 

“Exactly,” said Mr. Morrison Sayles. “Then why 
should not this young actor devote his spare hours 
through the week to the Church of the Transformation ? 
Why should he come down town to St. Cyril’s?” 

“Partly, I suppose, because your rector requested his 
help; and partly because there is very little ‘institu¬ 
tional ’ work here in our parish. The people to whom we 
minister seem to need personal help rather than organ¬ 
ized recreation. But Drake is a man who would do any¬ 
thing for people. In fact, I think he would do anything 
for me — and I advised him to help them out at St. 
Cyril’s. So I don’t see just how I could ask him now to 
give it up. We don’t need him over here — except in 
his place on Sunday; and he’s always on hand there.” 

Doctor Calory’s voice went on, but softening as if in 
a reverie: 

“An inspiration to see a man like that in front of the 
pulpit, straight as an arrow, his face lifted up — never 
seems to lose a word of the sermon. Worth all the work 
I have put in here. I remember well how serious he 
looked when I married him to Helen Merry; he so tall 
and fair, and she so slender and dark. And they have 
proved admirably suited to each other. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I should consider it more to his credit, ’ ’ said Mr. 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


11 


Morrison Sayles, coldly, “if he spent his leisure moments 
at home.” 

“The very brief part of the week which he can give 
to St. Cyril’s,” replied Doctor Calory, with a hint of 
asperity in his tone, “I am sure is almost the only time 
when he is not either at the theatre or his home. He and 
Helen are as nearly inseparable as any two humans 
could be. John Drake is as fine as he looks, Mr. Sayles 
— and that is a lot! Your rector is glad to have his 
help; it’s the busy people on whom we can always best 
rely. Same way with you. Harrison is twice as happy 
with you for his warden as he would be if some idle, 
retired crank of a millionaire were in that office. You’ve 
been successful as a banker; but best of all, you’re still 
in active work. And you’re a good churchman. In fact, 
Harrison declared only the other day in my presence, 
that St. Cyril’s would never have been what it is with¬ 
out you. Well, don’t rush away.” 

Doctor Calory rose with Mr. Morrison Sayles, and 
slapped him fraternally on the back. 

The financier’s face had softened noticeably. “Well, 
sir, ’ ’ he said, ‘ ‘ perhaps I do try to do what I can for the 
church. But I wish things were different. Religion and 
the drama, I believe, will always be strange companions. 
I thank you, sir. Good evening.” 

The rector of the Church Around the Corner watched 
from his stone steps as the big car slipped away. Then 
he returned to his study. His face wore something be¬ 
tween a scowl and a smile. And very strangely, not 
once that evening did the thought of an unfinished ice¬ 
cream cone enter his mind. 



II 


As Walter Harrison for the nineteen hundreth time 
unlatched and threw open the door of the rector’s 
private entrance to St. Cyril’s, he stood for the nineteen 
hundreth time in wonder at the beautiful hugeness of 
it all. The great Gothic church had been built forty 
years before; two buildings on the same site had been 
destroyed successively by fire. The people had moved 
far away from the neighborhood. But large endowments 
and a congregation still loyal saved St. Cyril’s from 
being stranded in its noble isolation on lower Broadway. 

A few years before Harrison began his ministry at St. 
Cyril’s, some devoted person of large resources and 
practical mind had presented to the parish a great build¬ 
ing, of architecture in keeping with the church. It had 
four floors, and proved adequate to every social and 
religious need. There were choir rooms, bowling alleys, 
gymnasiums, reception rooms, and a big auditorium 
with a regular stage. Even in New York, the equipment 
of few if any other institutions approached the perfec¬ 
tion of St. Cyril’s. Harrison was very happy in it all; 
and to admiring visitors he was wont to say: 

‘ ‘ This is our workshop; our evidence of ‘ Christianity 
between Sundays, ’ as Dean Hodges used to call applied 
religion.” Harrison often wished that Professor James, 
who taught him his philosophy at Harvard, could come 
back in the flesh and see his own “Pragmatism” illus¬ 
trated here. It was in fact a community centre at a 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


13 


most problematical point of incomprehensible Manhat¬ 
tan. 

Instead of turning into the church itself on this occa¬ 
sion, Harrison ran up the wide stairs of the great parish 
building, and entered the auditorium. Windows were 
wide open, letting in the crisply cool air of early May. 
A group of young men and girls were clustered around 
the stage at the upper end of the hall. They were so 
absorbed in what their “coach” was saying that Harri¬ 
son was able to gain the front row of chairs before any¬ 
one noticed his entrance. Then some of the group saw 
him, and broke away a little, and the voice paused. A 
tall, fine-featured man of perhaps thirty-three years 
stepped out and gripped the rector’s hand. 

Both men were in love with their work; both were 
radiant with life. Each had a kind of nervous energy 
which was the strong kind; that which wears itself not 
out in worry or useless puttering. Harrison was almost 
as tall as Drake; but his shoulders had the hint of a 
scholarly stoop; glasses protected his large, brilliant 
eyes; and his hair was raven-black. Drake was straight, 
very blonde, and his eyes were battleship gray. 

“Delighted!” the rector’s speech was rapid, but his 
voice unusually rich. “A beautiful afternoon, Mr. 
Drake. And how is the work ? ’ ’ 

“Wonderfully fine!” said the actor enthusiastically. 
“Best material that anyone could want. We are going 
to do ‘The End of the Bridge’—and then comes ‘The 
Merchant of Venice’.” 

‘ ‘ Good — so glad they respond to your fine work. But 
it shows they have seen the vision. You have given them 



14 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


an ideal at which to aim. Hello, Jack,”—he turned to 
one of the boys;—“and there’s Molly,— Miss Molly, I 
suppose; you’re such a tall young woman now, I must 
be careful. What a fine big crowd you have out tonight! 
And six o’clock! How do you manage it, just at supper 
time for most of you ? ’ ’ 

“But it’s the only time Mr. Drake can give us,” ex¬ 
plained the boy known as Jack. 

“To be sure — I knew it, of course! Curtain at the 
Hylerion goes up at eight-fifteen. So long since I was 
there that I forgot an actor’s hours,” chuckled Harrison. 
‘ 1 So good of Mr. Drake to give us any of his time! ’ ’ 

“It speaks well,” said Drake, “for the ambition of 
these young folks that they let their suppers get cold to 
give this hour to me.” 

A chorus of remonstrance went up from the group, 
with such a shower of accompanying compliments that 
Drake smiled with real pleasure. Professional success 
had not spoiled him. 

“Well, good-bye to you all!” The rector’s beaming 
eyes swept the circle as he made a characteristically 
quick little bow. Within a moment or two he was in 
his study. Of spacious proportions, but well filled with 
books, there was plenty of space for a half-dozen com¬ 
fortable chairs and an immense flat-top desk. It was 
library, study, and office. His artistic sense had found 
expression in the prevailing color of the room — a soft 
rich brown — with which even the varied backs of 
twelve hundred books did not clash. 

Miss Murilla Harrison, whose watchful care had been 
the constant salvation of her bachelor nephew and his 



. THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


15 


rectory, was away for a brief visit. He bad decided 
therefore to be as much of a free-lance as possible for 
this evening, and had left word that he would not dine 
at the rectory. He read and wrote for a while, inter¬ 
rupted occasionally by the inevitable telephone. Then 
the rumble of rolling balls echoed up the stairs from the 
bowling alleys, and he knew that St. Cyril’s evening 
activities had begun. True enough — the little brass 
clock on his desk was pointing to eight. 

4 ‘I must look in at Miss Marjorie’s group for a mo¬ 
ment,” the rector said confidentially to the little clock. 
He was in the habit of consulting with it. The process 
always helped him in making decisions: and his plans 
were never opposed. The little clock never rubbed him 
the wrong way; it just went on serenely, making accu¬ 
rate assertions in its own sphere of life. It was a good 
clock; and Jones, the old sexton, wound it unfailingly, 
almost affectionately, on Saturday nights. 

Room twenty-four was the meeting place of the Com¬ 
munity Club. Here the rector found ten or twelve girls, 
seated in a half-circle. Their eyes were intent on a large 
chart spread before them. A rather tall young woman 
stood by the chart, pointing-stick in her hand. 

4 4 This is the so-called McKee district, ’ ’ she was saying. 
4 4 The housing in this part of the city is outrageously 
bad. Sanitation and ventilating — oh, good evening, 
Doctor Harrison! ’ ’ 

Her face flushed just a trifle as she smilingly met the 
rector’s warm hand-clasp. 

44 May I stay and hear your lecture tonight?” he 
asked. 



16 


THE QUALITY OP MERCY 


“You know you may,” the young woman replied. 
“But it isn’t a lecture. I’m simply helping my girls to 
study some of our social problems.” 

Harrison bowed to the class, and took a chair by a 
window. Far and near the lights were appearing on the 
streets: sign-boards, hotels, and theatres had been flooded 
with their illumined symbols for fully a half-hour. 

The familiar roar and rumble of the elevated reached 
his ears. But he was listening only to the keen questions 
of the girls in the room. They expected, most of them, 
eventually to become nurses or social workers or teach¬ 
ers. They were having here a glimpse of conditions 
which later they would see, perhaps live among, them¬ 
selves. 

The rector of St. Cyril’s was impressed, as he had 
been many times before, with the quick and complete 
answers which the leader made. She was absorbed in 
her subject, and showed no sign of weariness during the 
lesson-hour. Her eyes, always expressive, were deeper 
blue under the electric light; her gold-brown hair was 
simply arranged and of wonderful thickness. Her 
mouth was of the kind which seems ever on the verge of 
a smile; and in all her movements she suggested the 
gladness of being alive. 

After class, Harrison and Marjorie Sayles walked 
slowly down the hall and stairway. The rumbling of 
the bowling-alleys, and shouts of swimmers in the pool 
vibrated familiarly in their ears. 

“Miss Marjorie,” said the rector — perhaps because 
he could think of nothing better to say — 11 1 don’t know 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


17 


what we should do without you. You’re as good a 
worker as any deaconess could possibly be! ” 

“You don’t have to do without me,” laughed the 
girl; “and I’m glad I don’t have to be a deaconess!” 

‘ ‘ Everything you do is done well, ’ ’ the rector went on. 
His tone was sincere, and had just a tinge of emotion. 

“I do only these talks — and visiting the people’s 
homes — houses like the ones I told them about tonight. ’ ’ 
“Yes — but when you’ve done that, week after week 
for two or three years, just for the love of it —” 

“Anything one does for love — or just for the love of 
it,” smiled Marjorie, “is happy work, and so is not work 
at all!” 

‘ ‘ But many of these families have sick people: and to 
visit a sick person in the right spirit of cheerful sym¬ 
pathy, is a real pull on one’s vitality,” said Harrison. 
“I know it from my own experience.” 

“That is true,” agreed Marjorie, seriously. “I can’t 
say that I enjoy calling on sick people. But it seems to 
mean so much to them. ’ ’ 

“Quite so; quite so. I should be glad if you would 
make a few visits with me sometimes, in cases of poverty 
or trouble to which, many of them, I am called. Two 
persons are often much better than one. A woman’s 
wise counsel or gentle touch, I have often thought, 
would make my visit much more effective. ’ ’ 

“Most gladly!” exclaimed Marjorie Sayles. “I have 
often felt the same need — of another voice, and of a — 
companion — one who has the training and the knowl¬ 
edge of people. Of course I have no fear: my ‘St. 




18 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


Cyril’s cross’ seems to give me perfect protection. By 
the way, wasn’t Cyril the Bishop of Jerusalem?” 

“Right,” said Harrison, his large eyes twinkling be¬ 
hind his glasses. “And you have heard the title that 
some witty friend gave our bishop recently ? ’ ’ 

Marjorie shook her head. 

“Bishop of the New Jerusalem!” 

‘ ‘ How rich ! that’s awfully good. ’ ’ 

“Yes — how rich — do you mean the New Jerusalem 
— or its people ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, that is too much, Doctor Harrison,” said Mar¬ 
jorie, laughing. “Well, to answer your question, the 
Jews have helped to make their city rich. But there are 
thousands of poor ones — poor and worthy too. I never 
read Mary Antin without wanting to let down all bars 
that can possibly be let down, so that the worthy immi¬ 
grants may enter this ‘Land of Promise.’ But papa 
says my scheme would admit all kinds of anarchists and 
Bolsheviks. ’ ’ 

“It’s a big problem,” the rector assented. “But — 
isn’t this your car?” 

He assisted Marjorie Sayles into the soft recesses of 
the limousine. When its red rear light was no longer 
visible, he made a dash in the general direction of a 
restaurant; and for the next half-hour was a paying 
guest of the famous Mr. Childs. 



Ill 


One of the penalties imposed on the rector of a metro¬ 
politan church is that of being expected to sponsor any 
new enterprise under the sun. The Reverend Walter 
Harrison was not exempt. He was wonderfully favored 
by having behind his work plenty of financial resources 
and numerous helpers. But every day some letter came 
asking help to build a school for the “Mountain whites” 
or a hospital in China; or pleading some great need in 
the reconstruction of the world. These requests he 
could answer through his secretary, even though not al¬ 
ways with a check enclosed. 

But problems of another kind presented themselves, 
harder to solve because they were so close at hand. The 
world poured its questions in human form into the 
streets that centered at St. Cyril’s. Here were the 
swarming interrogation-marks of poverty, sickness, and 
discontent. Many times the conviction came over Wal¬ 
ter Harrison that trying to answer these questions was 
like attempting to argue with the tempest or an angry 
sea. 

Whatever help one might render to a few individuals, 
the conditions of life must always be terribly compli¬ 
cated, fiercely overwhelming, if one should try to meet 
them all. 

He was familiar with the various solutions of social 
problems offered to a doubting world. Single-tax, pa- 


20 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


ternalism, communism, all the way down to absolute 
anarchy; Harrison had patiently listened to all their 
advocates, in public or from some enthusiastic visitor in 
his own study. In these there was no financial problem, 
so far as they concerned the resources of St. Cyril’s. 
They all involved, however, in some degree the readjust¬ 
ment of society, either with or without the help of the 
church. Harrison therefore felt inclined and even im¬ 
pelled to keep in touch with every soqjal question, how¬ 
ever wild and impossible the various solutions might 
seem to be. 

He had just taken up a copy of ‘ 1 The Burning Issue, ’ ’ 
whose editorials fulfilled in their intensity all that the 
name implied, when he heard a familiar voice outside his 
study door. There were two brief raps, followed im¬ 
mediately by a man of powerful build and piercing 
eyes. 

“Why, good morning, Mr. Bower!” exclaimed the 
rector, in his hurriedly cordial manner. “Very glad to 
see you — beautiful day — won’t you sit down ? 9 ’ 

He opened a drawer and held out an inviting brown 
box. “I think you smoke: I do myself. You know Phil¬ 
lips Brooks was a great smoker; and I was his disciple 
even in that. The only fault he had — but with me it’s 
one of many! ’ ’ 

They each laughed at this confession, and soon the 
study was hazy with the blue-gray smoke of fragrance 
and fellowship. 

“But it isn’t just imitation,” Bower was saying. His 
voice was pleasing, and his face lighted up in an unusual 
way when he spoke. ‘ 1 I have come to believe that smok- 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


21 


ing gets its attractiveness mostly by association. I mean 
the mental kind — association of ideas; memories and 
so on. That's why a man likes to smoke alone, as well 
as with friends." 

44 Fragrant memories — the good old days?" sug¬ 
gested the rector. 

“That’s it. The idea of friendship even when the 
friend is not there; it wafts back the evenings at the 
Club, the fireside of other days, some wonderful dinner 
when everything was just right; the big armchair, the 
absorbing book that made some occasion stand out for¬ 
ever. These aromas may bring back to the mind any one 
of a hundred things." 

“Would you put it in that category in your social 
scheme?" asked Harrison. “Of course we know the 
pipe is called the poor man’s solace —’’ 

“Absolutely," said Bower. “Some of my friends 
have said to me, ‘Hal, what will the working-man do 
when the Government prohibits tobacco ? ’ And my reply 
is, ‘In that case, old Uncle Sam may just as well pro¬ 
hibit his breathing.’ Smoking the old pipe eases his 
mind because he connects the thing itself and the odor 
of his strong tobacco with relaxation. All luxuries are 
relative in value — and that is his. ’ ’ 

“They smoke at your Monday evening ‘Forum,’ don’t 
they?" inquired Harrison. “I’ve often wanted to look 
in, but never seem able to make it. My nights are pretty 
well tied up, you know." 

“Of course they smoke," said Bower. “We have 
music — and usually a live speaker — and then anyone 
can ask questions. It’s good for the men, and good for 



22 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


the Nation. A few thousand Forums scattered over the 
country would be an actual safety-valve. Over there at 
our meeting, every week the dangerous sparks of dis¬ 
content are quenched in the hearts of several hundred 
people, because they are allowed to come there and ex¬ 
press themselves.” 

“Do you find that questions resulting from the war 
still perplex people?” asked Harrison, deeply inter¬ 
ested. “I mean, not so much questions of re-adjust¬ 
ment, but of the right and wrong — of war itself. ’ ’ 

“Our business now,” said Bower, his voice vibrating 
with earnestness, “is to make peace beautiful. We are 
trying to forget war, and at the same time, never to 
allow it again. To accomplish that, there must be not 
only an agreement among the nations, but happiness 
here at home. I cannot be a ready-made socialist. I ad¬ 
vocate a short working-day and good wages, so that men 
and women may grow in personality; everyone different 
from every other — not cast in a common mould. And 
I have in the most conspicuous place in our assembly 
room, President Wilson’s epigram, ‘When Peace is as 
handsome as War, there will be no more War.’ How 
truly that expresses it! And so Peace — our living in 
this day — must have in it what War had: variety and 
adventure —” 

“And sacrifice,” said the rector, softly. 

“And sacrifice,” Hal Bower nodded. 

Harrison rose and opened the window; then each man 
started silently on a second cigar. 




IV 


Even in New York, amateur theatricals are not with¬ 
out audiences. At St. Cyril’s, the young folks enjoyed 
the training. There were indeed those who had the hope, 
whether secretly cherished or openly declared, to appear 
eventually on the stage of the Hylerion. Others, more 
adventurous, announced that they would “go on the 
road ’ ’ with some high class company. But under 
Drake’s wise direction they took themselves not too 1 
seriously: studying their parts for the recreation and 
mental training gained thereby. 

Their relatives, and in still greater number their 
friends, both from within and without the congregation 
of St. Cyril’s, rarely failed to be present when the plays 
were produced. 

Mr. Morrison Sayles never appeared on such occasions. 
Harrison felt always a sense of real regret that the 
senior warden had such an antipathy to church the¬ 
atricals. Sayles had given largely toward the building 
of the parish house, and had personally supervised much 
of the construction work. He was generous, fond of 
young people, and always loyal to the church. That 
made his attitude toward the dramatics seem all the 
more disappointing, and even almost baffling. Harrison 
had never become convinced that he ought to close down 
this branch of parish activity. He regarded it as a 
wholesome social diversion and a really artistic method 
of instruction. 


24 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


Another regretful result of the warden’s attitude was 
the fact that Marjorie never came to the plays, nor 
would she even discuss amateur dramatics with Harri¬ 
son. It was to be expected that she would comply with 
her father’s wishes, and make his course of action her 
own. But Harrison found himself missing her presence 
keenly; her strong, sincere personality; and her deep 
human interest which he was sure would have been out¬ 
poured on such occasions. 

The rector was duly notified when the evening of the 
play approached. It was published also on the huge 
bulletin board in the entrance of the parish house, and 
printed on the weekly calendars which appeared Sunday 
morning in every pew. The play was set for Monday 
night. 

Walter Harrison could rarely persuade his aunt Mu- 
rilla to go to dances or theatricals of any kind. She was 
distinctly of the old school. Her chief characteristics 
were aversion to modern amusements, scrupulous house¬ 
keeping, and a deep affection for her nephew, which took 
the form of a jealous guardianship. The many eligible, 
and in many cases, beautiful young women of St. Cyril’s 
stood not nearly so much in awe of the rector as of Miss 
Murilla. What may have been the happy or tragic des¬ 
tinies from which he had been saved by his good aunt’s 
strategy, not even he could guess. 

Her common-sense, however, rescued them both from 
many moments that would have been otherwise embar¬ 
rassing. She knew that he was devoted to every depart¬ 
ment of his work, and that his success must come from 
giving his best to it all. 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


25 


She always read and remembered the engagements of 
the week, published in the Sunday calendar. Harrison 
knew, therefore, perfectly well that her question at 
luncheon next day was superfluous. 

“And what is it at the parish house this evening, 
Walter!” 

“ ‘The End of the Bridge,’ Aunt Murilla. The Dra¬ 
matic Club gives it.” 

“Ah — a play. It sounds quite like a melodrama.” 

“ It is one of the Harvard plays, ’ ’ Harrison explained. 
“Took the prize which was offered to student play¬ 
wrights. A member of Professor Baker’s class wrote 
this some years ago, and won the prize for that year. 
Oh no, not melodramatic in any lurid way; just a quiet 
little thing, very sweet — and sad — and well-con¬ 
structed. ’ ’ 

Miss Murilla abruptly changed the subject to that of 
a recent magazine article; and her nephew thought no 
more about his evening duties before it was time to run 
over to the auditorium. 

The hall was filled with people of the kind that the 
rector delighted to see on such occasions: girls from the 
offices and shops, boys who were learning to become 
printers or skilled mechanics; a number of students still 
at their high school duties and dreams of life. Married 
people too, were there; many of them Harrison recog¬ 
nized as parents of the young actors. The rector’s 
kindly eyes beamed behind his glasses as he greeted 
those around him. 

Scanning his program, he noticed at the top, printed 
in very black type: 



26 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


“By special request, Miss Helen Merry of the Hy- 
lerion Stock Company will take the leading part. This 
is the first opportunity which Miss Merry has had to 
favor amateur dramatics in this way; and it is a great 
privilege to St. Cyril’s Dramatic Club.” 

“How could you get her?” Harrison asked Jack Bates, 
who was stage manager and general fac-totum. 

“She has a good understudy, you know,” said Bates. 
He was almost out of breath with excitement and re¬ 
sponsibility. “And she puts her in at The Hylerion 
Monday nights. When we asked Miss Merry, she seemed 
tickled to death — said it would seem like old times to do 
‘The End of the Bridge’ again. She’s had one or two 
rehearsals with us — but she didn’t seem to need any!” 

As the play proceeded, Harrison saw that it was easily 
the best the Dramatic Club had ever done. Apart from 
the really unusual training given the performers by 
John Drake, it was very evident that the glory of the 
play radiated from Helen Merry. Her presence on the 
stage gave inspiration to the rest; and her coaching, 
though inaudible to the audience, was revealed in the 
almost perfect movement of the play. 

Her own part was done without apparent flaw; and 
she gained the hearts and rapturous applause of all her 
audience. Her slight, active frame, her dark, clear-cut 
features, and her bell-like enunciation made the role 
seem her very own. 

After the play, Harrison made it a point to seek her 
out and congratulate her. 

“We are all very grateful to you, Miss Merry,” he 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


27 


declared with sincere feeling. ‘‘ It is such a help to the 
young folks — and to us all. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Thank you, Doctor Harrison, ’ ’ she answered simply. 
She seemed like a very young girl as he looked down at 
her and at the diminutive hand resting in his own. 

“I wish you might be with us oftener,” he went on. 
“Do come whenever you can. I should be glad if it were 
possible for Mr. Drake too, to have a real evening here. ’ ’ 
“I wish it were,” said Helen Merry. “But I guess 
we work too hard,” she added, smiling. “When I’m 
not at the theatre, I feel I ought to be at home. And 
I’m generally at the theatre! But maybe I can help a 
bit when the Club does ‘The Merchant of Venice.’ Mr. 
Drake says I ’ll be needed — as Portia. ’ ’ 

“Wonderfully fine!” exclaimed the rector. A few 
moments later, he took her downstairs to a waiting taxi, 
and wished her “Good night.” 



y 


Toward the end of Spring, a rector’s work lets up — 
or down — to a marked degree, even in the busiest 
parishes. Walter Harrison seized on one of his un¬ 
pledged evenings, now occurring with delightful fre¬ 
quency, to go over to his friend Bower’s ‘‘Forum.” 

He had a good deal of respect for Hal Bower’s ability 
and common sense. The man was by no means radical, 
visionary or impractical. Harrison regarded him as a 
constructive helper of those elements in society which 
for some reason have been grouped apart as “the work¬ 
ing class. ’ ’ Bower tried to make his fellow-men happier 
and conditions better by arousing public sentiment. 
Bather than calling on the “oppressed” to insist on 
their “rights,” he aimed to inform and inspire both 
employed and employers, and everyone else besides. And 
when he sought help from the legislators, it was to secure 
laws that would benefit society as a whole, rather than 
any one ‘ ‘ class. ’ ’ 

Bower’s work, therefore, was not frowned on by lead¬ 
ers of religion and sociology in the community; it was 
watched with sympathy and interest, and sometimes was 
openly commended. Of course, however, in the “For¬ 
um” meetings there often appeared men — sometimes 
women — with some unique fad, some bitter grievance, 
or what conservative people call a “dangerous doctrine.” 
Bower took special delight in letting these “radicals” 
have their innings. He knew that fireworks are better 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


29 


and safer when allowed to explode in a public place 
under wise control, than when they accumulate in some 
hidden corner of the social fabric. 

“What a fine crowd you have tonight!” said the 
rector in a low tone, as he reached the platform and 
shook the leader’s hand. 

“It’s quite fair,” replied Bower. “We need a bigger 
hall. May have to get Madison Square Garden,” he 
added, smiling, “if it keeps on growing.” 

“WTio is the violinist playing now?” asked Harrsion, 
“and who speaks tonight?” 

“Oh, that is Solawintz: he’s a Czech, one of those 
wonderful Bohemians. We have no speaker here tonight, 
though I tried hard to get one. Occasionally the man 
we thought we were sure of, finds that he has made some 
other conflicting appointment. But look here—” he 
grasped Harrison’s elbow—“you’re willing, aren’t you, 
to give us anything that’s on your mind ? They ’re always 
keen to hear from a parson — from anyone in fact who 
presents things in a fresh way. ’ ’ 

“I don’t believe they’d care to hear me ramble,” said 
Harrison. “I wouldn’t have come to the plaform, if 
there had been a seat down there with the crowd. I’d 
much rather sit in the ‘pews’ and listen.” 

“You can listen — after you’ve opened up for us!” 
Bower spoke softly, but smiled persuasively. “Then, 
whoever feels the ‘urge,’ will ask you a question, or com¬ 
ment on what you have said. After that, you have a 
chance to answer.” 

“Sounds good,” said Harrison, “but suppose I can’t 
answer ? ’ ’ 



30 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


They both chuckled at the thought; then the rector 
leaned back in the broad-armed “mission ’ 7 chair, and 
keenly observed the gathering. He felt somehow a bit 
more at ease when he discovered that no one was looking 
at him, or even in his direction. The eyes of everyone 
seemed to be fixed, in many cases almost adoringly, on 
the young Bohemian musician. He was playing now one 
of his native airs. He evidently loved it as if it were his 
inmost thought, his prayer, his life. And the violin ex¬ 
pressing it, seemed to be a living and breathing soul, the 
soul of the player. He bowed in open-hearted pleasure 
at the rapturous applause. Harrison felt that here was 
an audience before whom the greatest artists would be 
glad to appear. As he watched the complex group, he 
could see tired faces relaxing, stolid expressions becom¬ 
ing transformed, dull eyes changing into clear windows 
of the spirit within. 

And the best thing about it, Harrison knew, was that 
these people recognized the finest in music, and re¬ 
sponded to its beauty. There were women in the audi¬ 
ence, apparently of as many varying nationalities as the 
men. Blonde, broad-cheeked Norwegians rubbed shoul¬ 
ders with intense, large-eyed Italians. Here was a good- 
natured, open-faced Irishman; over there a brightly 
pretty girl, unmistakably a Russian Jew. 

The young violinist played on, responding as if by 
glad compulsion, to the almost frantic approbation of 
his audience. He did a stirring thing from Grieg, with 
its weird Viking appeal; then a beautiful prayer-like 
melody from Gounod. His bow lingered a moment 
longer than usual on the last sweet note; and until the 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


31 


final faint vibration had flitted away, there was not a 
stir or sound from the captivated hearers. 

“I could have closed my eyes,” Harrison declared 
afterwards in describing it, “and believed myself alone 
with the angels.” 

When the applause had finally died away, Bower arose 
and thanked musician and audience. He assured them 
that they were both most unusual. 

‘ ‘ The ability to love music,' ' he said, “ is a gift not as 
rare as the ability to make it. But the very fact that 
so many of us, while not ourselves musicians, can hear 
its message with affectionate understanding, should be 
for us a cause of deep gratitude. But—” he pointed 
to the big wall-clock—“we must go on. Reverend Doc¬ 
tor Harrison of St. Cyril's Church, Broadway, is here 
tonight. He came not expecting to be called on. But 
because of the absence of a speaker, he kindly agrees to 
lead our thoughts along some useful channel . 9 9 

The applause which greeted the clergyman was dis¬ 
tinctly less in volume than that which had been accorded 
to the musician. Harrison observed signs of distrust, if 
not actual disappointment, on several faces. But he felt 
all the more keenly keyed up to the situation. He deter¬ 
mined to overcome, if he were able, the barriers of men¬ 
tal opposition in. his audience. 

“I'm glad I came,’' he began, with one of his winning 
smiles, “and I hope perhaps you’ll soon be just a little 
glad too. I'm not going to speak about the Church, or 
about religion. This is a meeting, I understand, of 
people who believe that this world can be made better 
than it is; and that we can help to make it so. 



32 


THE QUALITY OP MERCY 


“But most of our waking hours are working hours. 
We are busy people. We want to know then, for our 
friends and neighbors and ourselves, what ideas may be 
in existence which may really improve working condi¬ 
tions. 

“You will allow me to say that I think I understand 
in some degree the drudgery that so often pulls down 
the individual, depresses the mind, and crushes ambi¬ 
tion. But I am quite sure there is also the other side; 
and that is the ideal which is set before everyone of us. 
We may be too weary to search for it, too discouraged 
to recognize it, too busy to believe in it. But it is there. 
Otherwise, life would be not worth living at all . . .’’ 

“Only for the rich/’ broke in a man’s voice with a 
profound foreign accent. 

“Thank you for the thought,” replied Harrison, 
quickly. He was beginning now to enjoy himself in his 
unusual surroundings. 

“But I am sure,” he went on, “though you may not 
believe me, that no rich person is happy without ideals. 
Such a man, however much property he owns, would be 
‘of all men most miserable,’ because he has nothing 
really to live for. But let me call it just now by the 
name ‘idea’ rather than ‘ideal.’ I am convinced that 
some ideas have not yet been tried in this world of work 
— some which might prove to be sensible and reason¬ 
able. Some of them might bring prosperity and happi¬ 
ness to millions of working people. 

“Tonight I will name just one. I wish it might really 
be tried. You are familiar with its name. It is profit- 
sharing. There is a difference, as you know, between 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


33 


profit-sharing and a communistic or cooperative scheme 
whereby the workers divide their earnings among them¬ 
selves. And there is a difference between profit-sharing 
and that kind of welfare work which some large com¬ 
panies conduct for their employees, in the form of 
libraries and kinder-gartens and dining rooms ; a sort 
of benevolent 1 bonus’ added in this way to their wages. 

‘ ‘ Profit-sharing does not do away with private owner¬ 
ship or personal initiative; two things which seem to me 
to involve both responsibility and individuality, and, 
therefore, to be democratic and desirable. What it does 
do, or if fully tried out, would do, I believe, is to divide 
responsibility and initiative among all who are engaged 
in the business. It helps the owner see more clearly his 
duty to stimulate and help his humblest workman. And 
it must give to every employee an impetus — perhaps an 
inspiration — to do his very best work. He is in actual 
partnership with the president and the directors, the 
manager and overseer, and with all his fellow workmen. ’ ’ 

“What proportion would the workers get?” The 
question came from an intelligent-looking man in the 
front row. 

“Generally speaking, I should advocate fifty per cent 
of the net profits. Perhaps one-third would be more 
just, because sometimes the net returns would hardly 
more than pay a fair rate of interest on the investment. 
The division of the profits among the individual employ¬ 
ees would be on a sliding scale, rated according to length 
of service, ability, grade of work, responsibility and 
actual wages. ’ ’ 



34 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


“Why hasn’t it really been tried out?” asked a wo¬ 
man’s voice rather faintly. 

11 Some of these men know the reason, ’ ’ said Harrison, 
smiling. “The employers have done a little of it when 
it was possible, and when it seemed to bring in better 
returns. But there has been no legislation to encourage 
its extension. The labor unions have never favored it. 
That is because their leaders think it may cause willing¬ 
ness to work longer hours: that it may diminish for some 
workers the average present wage; that for these and 
other reasons it would injure the strength of the unions. 
I believe that is a fair statement. ’ ’ 

Harrison saw several heads nod an assent. 

“Now perhaps I have given you a starting-point, my 
brothers — and sisters,” he said, “so, especially as I 
hadn’t dreamed of saying even a word tonight — I ’ll sit 
down. ’ ’ 

There was silence for a moment or two. People 
shuffled their feet or cleared their throats; several got 
up and went out noisily. Very likely, thought Harrison, 
their rising hour was four or five every morning. 

“Come on, folks,” Bower called out, cheerfully. 
‘ ‘ Some one say a word — or ask another question. ’ ’ 

A tall man arose in the rear of the room. His voice 
was metallic, but he spoke in perfect English. 

‘ * Why beat around the bush ? ” he exclaimed. ‘ ‘ This 
is an age-long question. On the wages we have now, we 
cannot live. Capitalists have never been known to im¬ 
prove the condition of the workers — except when they 
have been forced to it; or in the few cases when, like a 
meat-baron fattening his steers, they do it for the profit 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


35 


it brings. The labor-unions, by organized effort, have 
brought about an increase of wages from time to time. 
But of what use is that, when rents and prices go up 
faster than wages? The answer is, no use. So, with 
thousands like myself, I am convinced that the people — 
the workers — must own everything. Why should a 
young man go to college, study geology or architecture; 
then graduate, step into his millionaire father’s office or 
factory, and assume charge of it all, including the lives 
of perhaps ten thousand people ? ’ ’ 

He stopped abruptly and sat down. There was a little 
gust of applause. Bower whispered to Harrison: 

“That’s Matthew Hayman — he is a leader of the 
radicals in the district.” 

No one else seemed inclined to speak. After waiting a 
brief time, Bower walked to the front of the platform. 

“Well, my friends,” he said, “you are giving Doctor 
Harrison an easy time tonight. As chairman of the 
meeting, I have had no chance to use my gavel. But 
now our speaker has the privilege of summing up what 
he has said; to answer the remarks just made, or to add 
anything he desires. ’ ’ 

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” said Harrison, rising 
and stepping quickly toward his audience. 

“My friend Mr. Hayman’s point of view,” he went 
on, motioning toward the previous speaker, “is one not 
to be lightly dismissed. However, I believe we must 
encourage individual initiative, as I have already said. 
I doubt very much whether ownership of everything by 
all the workers would be practical democracy, to say 
nothing of any Utopian result. I believe, moreover, in 



36 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


the responsibility that comes from inheritance, from an 
able father to a worthy son. I would tax property equit¬ 
ably, regulate big business without favoritism, and pro¬ 
hibit all profiteering in necessities. But before we try 
any extreme method such as that proposed by my friend 
— turning the fabric of business inside out — I advocate 
a real trial of profit-sharing, or of anything that may be 
still better. How it could be best brought about and 
made nation-wide, I am not wise enough to prescribe. 
But sometime I hope I shall be invited to say to an 
audience of the owners of our industries what I have 
tried so imperfectly to say to you. Thank you very sin¬ 
cerely. Good night.’’ 

He shook hands with several men who came forward. 
One or two of them mumbled a comment on the success 
of the meeting. As he was saying something in reply, 
he felt his words beginning to ramble and then ceasing 
altogether. Far down the room, he had caught a glimpse 
of Marjorie Sayles. She was just slipping out now; but 
she turned for an instant, and finding herself in the 
range of Harrison’s eye, waved her hand prettily, and 
was gone. 



VI 


When Walter Harrison next met Marjorie Sayles, each 
was clinging to a teacup. It was a beautiful afternoon 
in late May; Mrs. Anthony Oliphant was hostess to 
members of a “guild” in which she took a special inter¬ 
est. Situated on a high bank of the river, her broad 
veranda was ideally suited to the occasion. 

The rector of St. Cyril’s found these social gatherings 
not only pleasant diversions from hard work, but also a 
means of meeting many of his church workers at close 
range and in goodly numbers. 

It is possible, however, that he hurried uptown on this 
occasion with mixed motives, part of which mixture was 
the thought of seeing Marjorie. His quest was success¬ 
ful, and she impressed him as looking unusually pretty, 
in a light frock of an orange shade, with a white silk rose 
at her waist. 

“0 Doctor Harrison,” she said eagerly, as soon as 
they had greeted each other, ‘ ‘ I wanted to tell you how 
wonderfully good your talk was, at the Forum that 
night! Those constructive and sane ideas are just what 
they need. ’ ’ 

“I enjoyed it all,” said Harrison,—“all except my 
part of it! How that fellow Solowitz, or whatever his 
name is — can play! And I like to be with a crowd of 
that kind. We parsons don’t get in touch with the 
people — the real people, I mean — except at such times 


38 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


as that. But what brought you there — and where did 
you escape to V ’ 

‘ ‘ Oh, I slipped in, as I have done before; I had just 
taken some eatables to a poverty-stricken family. After 
the meeting I took a taxi home. ’ ’ 

“Wonderful person!” said Harrison, with such hon¬ 
esty of tone that Marjorie looked down quickly into her 
cup. 

i ‘But we weren’t talking about me, when we started,” 
she smiled, as she looked up again. “I was telling you 
how much I liked what you said. ’ ’ 

“Oh, so you were!” Harrison laughed. “Well, in 
fact, I suggested only one answer out of dozens that are 
being set forth to solve the problem. But I feel it is best 
sometimes to get people thinking on one thing, rather 
than to confuse them with many. And my mind seems 
to be in this way like Mr. Wilson’s, who said that his 
ran on a single track.” 

“That must be a good kind of a mind,” said Marjorie, 
seriously. 

“It’s convenient,” admitted Harrison, “and it is 
direct. But I sometimes think that a man with a single- 
track mind needs at least some kind of switch. Then, if 
a big freight-car of junk ever gets in front of him and 
blocks up the track, he can quickly slide off to the siding, 
and do some bit of work of a different kind. And when 
he switches back to the main line again, the obstruction 
probably will be gone.” 

“Why of course!” cried Marjorie, “and what a fine 
theme that would make for a discourse against worry — 
and discouragement!” 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


39 


‘‘Yes,” said Harrison. “Obstructions are not usually 
as hopeless as they seem. Sometimes if one waits — or 
works at something else — they disappear; sometimes 
one can use his ‘switch’ to go around them. But we seem 
to be discussing railroads rather than enjoying this 
party. Why haven’t we been seated in those comfortable 
chairs during our talk ? And ought I to monopolize you 
in this way ? Or am I the only man present ? ’ ’ 

“I haven’t discovered any others. But why do you 
ask — is it from pure terror ? Or are you seeking a sub¬ 
stitute to take your place ? ’ ’ 

“Not at all — having the time of my life right here!” 
he declared. “Merely curiosity. And I shouldn’t object 
if I were the only man! ” he laughed. 

“But there are other women,” said Marjorie, archly. 
It is very good of you to say you are enjoying yourself. 
But I’m sure there are heaps of people here who would 
like to greet you! ’ ’ 

“Yes — very likely,” said Harrison, in a kind of boy¬ 
ish embarrassment. ‘ ‘ I ought to — ah — circulate a bit 
among these folks. ’ ’ 

“Oh, there you are, Doctor Harrison!” called out a 
pleasant voice. “Mrs. Oliphant is up at the other end of 
the room; she has been waving to you frantically for the 
last ten minutes! She wants to have you meet a Bishop 
— or a Dean, or something! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Good! ’ ’ cried Marjorie. ‘ ‘ Audrey wins the prize for 
discovering another man! ’ ’ 

So the rector, bowing low to Marjorie, was taken under 
the piloting wing of Audrey Collins, in search of the 
hostess — and the Bishop. 



40 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


“I’m ashamed to confess,” whispered young Miss 
Collins as they approached the seats — or standing- 
places — of the mighty, ‘ 1 that I never did meet any of 
our Church dignitaries! You know, I’m just on the 
fringe of things. I come to morning service, and to a 
party like this once in a while — and that’s all. I know 
it’s awful. But of course, you are acquainted with so 
many . . .” 

“Why, it’s our own Bishop!” exclaimed Harrison. He 
darted forward and effusively greeted an unusually tall 
and fatherly-appearing personage. Then, remembering 
his pilot, he called back to her. 

“Miss Collins — beg your pardon — want you to meet 
Bishop Beech.” 

“Delighted,” said a deep voice, and a kindly face 
beamed down on them both. “And so good of you, Mrs. 
Oliphant,” he added, turning to the hostess, “to let me 
come today. ’ ’ 

“The honor and the pleasure are mine, Bishop,” Mrs. 
Oliphant assured him. “So rarely that you can drop 
in at these trivial things. Pardon me — Audrey, see if 
you can find Mr. De Lacey. I’m sure he was here ten 
minutes ago. Perhaps he will be in the south music- 
room. ’ ’ 

Miss Collins disappeared; and as Mrs. Oliphant turned 
away to greet a guest, the Bishop indicated the open door 
of a little room that no one seemed to have discovered. 

“Let’s move in there,” he said. “My feet get tired 
when I stand ‘at attention.’ I’d rather go around a 
golf-course a few times than do this! Ah — isn’t this 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


41 


good! as they sank into luxuriantly wide arm-chairs. 
“Far from the maddening crowd — though I suppose I 
ought to be out there when they find De Lacey. But 
why should I be out there! I’ve met him a dozen times. 
Organist at St. Beth’s, you know. Wonderful musician.” 

“Yes — a genius,” assented Harrison. He was look¬ 
ing about with approving eyes on the rows of books that 
lined the sides of the little “den.” There were a few 
pictures showing rare good taste in their adaptation to 
the room. Two windows set high in the walls gave light 
without assertiveness. 

“And how’s the work, my boy?” the Bishop inquired, 
genially. He had found an ash-tray, and offered Harri¬ 
son a cigar. Then, with wisdom bom of experience, the 
rector quietly closed the door. 

“Oh, up and down, as usual,” he said. “And always 
interesting. Couldn’t begin to do it all without my 
curate, Henning. He’s especially keen on the Sunday- 
school work. Then I have a good secretary, Miss Brown- 
low. And Marjorie Sayles— you remember, Morrison 
Sayles ’ daughter — gives almost all her time to our 
social welfare work. She is a most unusual girl . . . ” 
“Fine family, remarkable people!” exclaimed the 
Bishop. “Her mother was a rare woman, and Miss Mar¬ 
jorie is following in her steps. Sayles is a sterling char¬ 
acter, too. Peculiar, no doubt, in one or two ways. Let’s 
see; what was Doctor Calory telling me the other day 
about some prejudice of Sayles . . . ” 

“Against church theatricals,” said the rector, with a 
grim smile. 



42 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


“Yes, yes: that was it. Of course Calory knows all 
about the theatrical people in ‘The Church Around the 
Corner. * But Sayles has no connection there. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ No, Bishop; Mr. Sayles is troubled because we have 
dramatics at St. Cyril’s — and our coach comes from 
Doctor Calory’s parish. John Drake—you know. The 
result of Drake’s direction is that our class in dramatics 
is a great success. ’ ’ 

“Well — I see the problem,” said the Bishop, frown¬ 
ing thoughtfully and re-lighting his cigar. “It isn’t as 
if Sayles were just an individualistic crank, floating 
around in your parish, and objecting to things — some¬ 
one whom you could squelch or ignore.” 

“No, not at all,” replied the rector, earnestly. “He’s 
loyal to St. Cyril’s; he’s a gentleman, and thoroughly 
sincere. I think he would like me—” Harrison smiled 
regretfully—“if I didn’t encourage the dramatics.” 

The two men sat silently smoking for several minutes. 
Then the Bishop arose and dropped his cigar-stub into 
the ash-tray. 

“Well, Harrison,” he said, cheerfully, “perplexities 
give variety to our work. And human problems are the 
most intensely interesting. Just as well — and better — 
for us, not to have a ready-made solution to fit them all! ” 



VII 

Harrison was summering among the beautiful New 
England hills when the news of John Drake’s death 
reached him over the telephone. 

He had grown to love the tall, clean-cut actor like a 
brother. Mentally he had often mapped out for Drake 
a career that should lead him to the top of his profession. 
But now — the end had come. It must be true; the mes¬ 
sage was cruelly clear. Drake had been camping for a 
week with some companions. The day before the word 
came to Harrison, Drake had gone up the river alone in 
a rowboat. He was in his bathing suit, and at a deep 
place in the river, started to dive. His foot became 
tangled in some fishing tackle which hung over the edge 
of the boat, and he was not able to loosen its hold. The 
boat was overturned, and the body was found only a few 
feet below the surface. Members of the camping party 
said that Drake had not been well for a day or two, and 
on this particular morning the water was unusually cold. 

So he had died; and hundreds of people, young and 
old, Harrison knew would have tears in their voices for 
days to come. 

The message gave the day and the hour of the funeral 
service. There was no need of stating the place. It 
could be only at The Church Around the Corner. Their 
full choir of boys and men of course would sing; and 
simplicity and quiet completeness would give the service 


44 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


the beauty which always surrounded the last farewells 
of the theatrical “family.’’ Harrison could picture it 
all in advance; he had attended such services at that 
church in former days. 

He looked up the train schedule, and found that he 
could easily reach New York in time. With a few words 
of explanation to his aunt, and a hasty lunch, he motored 
to the little station. The train was a fast one; and to 
make its progress seem still swifter, he had picked up 
from a book-shelf a little pocket-volume. As soon as he 
had found his seat, he opened it, receiving one of those 
bitter-sweet mental shocks which people sometimes ex¬ 
perience in tense moments. The book was a little leather- 
bound edition of “The Merchant of Venice.” He re¬ 
membered at once Drake’s eager, happy tones in which 
he had said that this was the next work to be done by 
the dramatic class at St. Cyril’s. What would the class 
do without him — would it have to be broken up ? Some 
amateur might do the coaching — but how crude it 
would seem! Some professional actor might help; but 
the Hylerion company was the only group of resident 
dramatic talent available. And there was none among 
them — unless —. But Harrison felt he must not go on 
with these vague attempts to plan. He had been preach¬ 
ing constantly to his people, not to take anxious thought 
about the morrow. And here he had discovered himself 
worrying a whole season in advance — as to what might 
happen to his class in the Fall — and the earthly frame 
of his dear friend not yet laid away! 

But he felt a strange attraction to the little book. 
Why, with unobserving eyes, had he chosen this from a 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


45 


dozen others ? It had brought his mind back to the very 
sadness which he hoped the diversion of reading might 
help to overcome. By some fascinating impulse he 
opened the book, and met the lines: 

. . the stream 

And watery death-bed for him. He may win . . . 11 

Harrison gulped and bowed his head. What fantasy 
of Chance was this— or was it a word from Heaven? 
If ever a eulogy were appropriate at a burial service, 
here was a text for it. The words indeed would have to 
be taken out of their setting. But John Drake had gone 
to his “Watery death-bed;” and he might win — no, 
surely he would win, had already won — the crown that 
comes to those who run the straight race. 

Wlien Walter Harrison entered The Church Around 
the Comer, fifteen minutes before the stated hour, it was 
already nearly filled. At his request, he was shown to a 
seat on the side aisle. He found it was very near the 
front. But he felt relieved that he was not to officiate, 
or even assist in the service. Here he could take part as 
a fellow-man; a simple friend of him in whose memory 
these hundreds of people were gathering. 

His thought and ear turned quickly to the softly 
beautiful music which the unseen organist was playing. 
The themes were melodies of hymns familiar to him since 
childhood, with some quiet little variations. One fol¬ 
lowed another: “Lead, Kindly Light,” “Abide with 
Me,” “Peace, Perfect Peace.” Harrison had a quick 
sense and appreciation for the very best in music; but 
sometimes he found himself loving the old hymns most 



46 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


of all. He had pointed out to many of his friends that 
even the so-called popular songs — those which have 
lasted — are set to music which in rhythm and style is 
very similar to a hymn setting. He used as illustrations 
a group of songs including “Oh, Promise Me,” “Some¬ 
where a Voice is Calling,’’ “The Rosary,” and “The 
End of a Perfect Day. ’ ’ 

These memories poured into his mind now as the 
organ-music was flooding his soul, with a sad kind of 
peace. John Drake had liked the stately things, even in 
popular music — the songs that would endure; he had 
cared not a straw for the meaningless and tuneless type 
of a later day. 

But now the white-robed boys were silently entering 
from a distant doorway; they took their places and stood 
motionless as the funeral procession came slowly up the 
main aisle. 

“I am the Resurrection—” could that be Doctor Ca¬ 
lory’s voice? Harrison had never known it to be quite 
so faltering and broken. But soon the words came out 
firmly, almost triumphantly, “though he were dead, yet 
shall he live . . .” 

The congregation, made up of men and women of all 
ages, and evidently of all walks of life, was standing. 
Apparently not a place was vacant in the church, whose 
spaciousness was much greater than the exterior indi¬ 
cated. 

Only two persons followed the casket: the slight, 
graceful figure in conventional black, escorted by a 
young man whose face so closely resembled Helen’s that 
he was very evidently her brother. 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


47 


Harrison watched Helen Merry, his mind full of sym¬ 
pathetic speculation as to what the coming days and 
years might bring her. Could she bear bravely this sud¬ 
den and terrible tearing away from her of one who, like 
herself, had never dreamed of death? Of course, if for 
a little while — the next few weeks — she could endure, 
after that, perhaps her work would save her. Nothing 
else, Harrison knew, would do it. She would have to be 
busy; and it must be the work of her profession. . . . 

The two figures were turning into the front pew. Har¬ 
rison noticed that the first and second pews had been 
reserved. Behind Helen Merry and her brother, there 
were standing two others — a man and a woman. 

There was a kind of strong nobility in the bearing of 
each. The woman's youthful vigor was apparent in 
every motion; her fair hair and skin were not hidden 
by the light crepe of her veil. The man’s shoulders were 
broad and straight; his fine head was streaked with gray. 
Harrison could see clearly the profiles of both, as their 
faces turned slightly when the rector ascended the 
chancel steps. 

“He heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall 
gather them . . 

Harrison’s heart was pounding. He could no longer 
hear the words of the old psalm. He rubbed his forehead 
with his handkerchief, and tried to collect his thoughts. 

The two occupants of the second pew were Morrison 
Sayles and his daughter Marjorie. 



VIII 


Harrison found the Sayles house on Seventieth street 
not boarded and barred as it usually was for the sum¬ 
mer, and he knew he was about to solve the problem that 
had given him a sleepless night. He had stayed at the 
rectory instead of resuming his vacation immediately; 
and now, on a wonderfully beautiful evening, hurried 
up to the big house. 

He was kept waiting only a moment in the great 
reception room before Marjorie came downstairs. She 
looked strong and healthy as always in her soft gray 
frock; but her pastor, as he stood before her, saw the sad¬ 
ness in her eyes. 

“I thought you would come — so sorry papa is not 
here. He had to leave last night for Chicago. He is to 
preside at a bankers’ convention.” 

“I’m sorry not to see him. But I felt I must call, 
Miss Marjorie. You — evidently you are in grief — yet 
I didn’t know . . .” 

“No one knew,” said Marjorie, softly. “Not even 
Doctor Calory — until it happened. But John Drake 
wasn’t really John Drake: many people knew that. 
What no one knew — at least no one in New York — was 
his real name.” 

“I asked him once,” Harrison said, as if he were 
meditating aloud, “but I think he never told me.” 

“No; he wouldn’t have told even you.” Marjorie’s 


THE QUALITY OP MERCY 


49 


hand passed lightly over the surface of a beautifully 
inlaid table at her side. The evening sunlight came 
through a tinted window — and mellowed the gold of her 
thick hair. Then she suddenly looked up into Walter 
Harrison’s face. Her voice was low, but very clear. 

1 ‘John Drake was Fred Sayles. He was my only 
brother.” 

The rector of St. Cyril’s was silent. He began to see 
the reason for things which before he had not under¬ 
stood. But he waited for Marjorie to speak again. 

“My father wanted him to graduate from Harvard, 
and then make the most of his talents. And he had 
plenty of them. You know, he was really brilliant.” 

“Yes,” said Harrison, “I know.” 

“But he didn’t finish his college course. He seemed 
to have only a dramatic career always in his mind. 
And soon after his twenty-first birthday he married — 
Miss Merry. Her real name was Helen Merriam. She 
was then in a travelling company which happened to be 
playing in a theatre downtown. You can understand 
how my father would — feel about it. ’ ’ 

Marjorie’s eyes rested a moment on the great bearskin 
rug that lay beneath their feet. The slow, stately tick¬ 
ing of the cathedral clock in the hall seemed in some 
strange way to help Harrison sift out gradually the 
meaning of it all — the story of Fred Sayles, Marjorie’s 
brother. 

“He never disowned him,” the girl went on. “But 
he couldn’t bear the thought of Fred’s doing that. 
Things simply took their own course. My brother never 
tried to conciliate papa. ’ ’ 



50 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


The throb-like measures of the great hall-clock seemed 
to Harrison to number several score before she spoke 
again. Then it was as if by an impulsive effort. 

“Do you know, Doctor Harrison, I believe he hoped 
that by accepting your invitation to coach the dramatic 
class at St. CyriUs he might — well, he might see a little 
more of us. Fred couldn’t endure having anyone dis¬ 
pleased with him. And I believe he always — loved us 
both, to the end. Of course, you came to St. Cyril’s 
after the hardest part — for us — was over. You never 
knew of the — separation; and my father was much too 
proud to mention it. You see, it was more than ten years 
ago when Fred married; and only a few of papa’s closest 
friends knew that he had a son who went on the stage. 
New York”—Marjorie smiled sadly—“forgets people 
easily. ’ ’ 

The rector impulsively took Marjorie’s hand; then, 
quickly releasing it, he said: 

“How glad your father and you always will be that 
you were there — at the service — yesterday! ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I couldn’t have stayed away, ’ ’ she answered, simply. 
“I’m not sure just how my father felt. But somehow 
I knew he would go with me. Our old family physician, 
Dr. Brownlow, was one of the first who were notified; 
and he came to us at once. He said that Jack Cornell, of 
the Hylerion Company, was making the arrangements.” 

“What a royal fellow your brother was!” exclaimed 
Harrison. “One of a thousand — strong, clean, and 
gifted. ’ ’ Then softly he added, ‘ ‘ How I shall miss him! ’ ’ 
“Yes — many, very many people will miss him. He 
did so much for others that was not widely known. You 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


51 


remember, Doctor Harrison, the evening yon spoke at 
Mr. Bower’s Forum meeting in the Spring?” 

11 1 remember it well. And yon were there. ’ ’ 

“Yes. Yon laid stress that night on profit-sharing. 
Yon may not know that my brother carried that out with 
his stock-company.” 

‘ ‘ He did ? ’ ’ was the rector’s surprised question. 11 No, 
he never told me.” 

‘ ‘ Ever since he has had the controlling interest in the 
Hylerion, he has divided the profits with all the members 
of the company — down to the ushers and door-keepers. 
What your address gave as high social principles, he car¬ 
ried into practice. ’ ’ 

“That is true nobility,” said Harrison. “He showed 
his faith by his works. And he kept his fellow-workers 
united and happy. ’ ’ 

The beautiful chimes of the big clock sounded the hour 
of nine. 

A neatly uniformed maid came noiselessly in, with a 
tray of grape “punch” and cakes. She laid it on the 
little inlaid table, and silently disappeared. 

The day had been warm, and even for Harrison, un¬ 
usually strenuous. He leaned back with a feeling of rest 
and relief, watching Marjorie in silence. He knew that 
like himself, she felt the lifting of a load in the revealing 
of her secret to him. He admired her courage, her per¬ 
fectly natural bearing, and the serenity of her soul. He 
remembered that in some prayer there was the phrase, 
“a sturdy mind.” How well that described Marjorie. 
How truly she could be said to have 11 a sturdy mind! ’ ’ 

Soon he arose. “I take the midnight train to my be- 



52 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


loved Berkshires,’ ’ he said, pressing her white hand. 
“And such a pile of letters on my desk there to be 
answered! ’ ’ 

“Oh, you go tonight? Then we shan’t meet till Oc¬ 
tober. Papa and I hope to get away for a few weeks. 
And you . . . ” 

“I shall be back before that,” said Harrison. “And 
may I look forward to your continuing that splendid 
work of visiting the people who so much need it? And 
your class in Sociology?” 

“I am looking forward to it myself,’’ she smiled. ‘‘It 
isn’t work; I love it. Good bye. ’ ’ 

She stood in the hall as he bowed low and took his 
final leave. 



IX 


Many times during what remained of the vacation 
season, Walter Harrison found himself unable to con¬ 
centrate either in his reading or his recreation. The 
days went by slowly, and the beautiful world of nature 
around him seemed to be without purpose or life. 

He felt with an unusual keenness the loss of Fred 
Sayles. And in mentally sketching the coming season’s 
program, he believed it would be almost impossible to 
carry on the work of the dramatic class. It was a great 
disappointment; for that had been one of the most suc¬ 
cessful and useful institutions at St. Cyril’s. 

His wise old aunt, Miss Murilla, saw clearly that he 
needed the manifold activities and variety of New York 
more than the quietness which was really wearing on his 
nerves. She knew that when he used his time in brood¬ 
ing, it meant, not that he was having a restful holiday, 
but the very opposite. 

She offered no objection, therefore, when, ten days 
earlier than the scheduled time, he suggested packing up 
for their return. 

“It’s getting quite a bit colder, Walter,” she said, in 
assenting to his plan. “I never knew the leaves of the 
oaks to turn quite so soon. And I know you’re never 
quite so happy as when you are in the midst of that ter¬ 
rible rattle and roar of Broadway!” 

And she smiled with a kind of stem satisfaction at his 


54 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


manifest delight when he threw open his study door 
again and gazed affectionately at his big desk. 

“Still there, isn’t it?” said his aunt Murilla. “Well, 
I guess you don’t want me around now!”—and she 
quietly left him there. 

Harrison glanced over a few letters that awaited him, 
and some other mail that had not been forwarded to his 
summer address. Then he called up Doctor Calory. A 
hearty greeting of welcome came back over the wire; the 
familiar vibrations of his old friend’s voice. 

“ I ’ll drop in on you this morning, if you don’t mind, ’ ’ 
said Harrison; “several important things to talk about; 
one especially — and as usual, I need your advice! ’ ’ 

“My secretary hasn’t returned,” he explained, after 
he had recovered from several vigorous thumps on the 
back, administered by the genial old rector, “so I 
couldn’t get much done today; and I have plenty on my 
mind to talk about. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Fire away, my boy! And will you have a smoke — 
or an ice-cream cone ? ’ ’ 

“Which do you keep in your pocket?” laughed Har¬ 
rison. ‘ ‘ The morning is possibly a bit too cool . . . ” 

“I knew you’d take the cigar!” exclaimed Doctor 
Calory. “Very well; I’ll save on my ice-cream, and 
have it for lunch. Fine little shop in the next block, 
you know. Meanwhile — here you are! ’ ’ 

The younger man took the large “Havana” with smil¬ 
ing appreciation. Then he went at the subject which 
always had brought out in them both the deepest inter¬ 
est. 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


55 


“Now that we have lost John Drake — Fred Sayles 
. . .” he began. 

“A real man; and what a loss!” said the old rector. 
“We shall not gaze upon his like again. How happy I 
was that his father and sister were at the Church! You 
knew of the relationship— and the estrangement ? ’’ 
“Yes; but only after it was all over.” 

“Mr. Sayles and his daughter called here the day be¬ 
fore the service — after all the arrangements had been 
made. They told me everything then. The young wo¬ 
man explained most of it — they both were quite broken 
up. So — I began to get a glimpse into the father’s 
attitude about certain things — church dramatics. ’ ’ 

“Of course,” said Harrison. “It is so much easier 
now for both of us to see why he has been so very 
peculiar on that one subject. And now I am wondering 
what he will do, what attitude he will take, if I go on 
with the same work at St. Cyril’s. ’ ’ 

“Well, why should he do anything?” demanded Doc¬ 
tor Calory, sharply. “He has had his great sorrow — 
all the greater because the one who caused his first grief 
is gone. If he is the strong character we believe him to 
be, he’ll pull through — and then why should he care 
what you do with your dramatics?” 

“He may think that now I have no real excuse or 
reason to keep it going,” said Harrison. “And because 
of events which have turned out so sadly for him, you 
can see how it may affect him if we continue the work. ’ ’ 
‘ ‘ But can you keep it up, even if you think you ought 
to ? ” asked the old rector. ‘ 1 Who could be your coach ? ’ ’ 



56 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


“That is my other real problem,’’ said Harrison. 
There was a hint of weariness in his voice; he cleared 
his throat, and puffed rapidly at his cigar. “No one 
could take the place of John Drake: no one in New York 
has the combination which he had of willingness and fit¬ 
ness. I shall always think of him as ‘John Drake;’ and 
he stood alone.” 

“Yes; that is the way we shall remember him — al¬ 
ways. And there is no one — unless”—the old rector 
frowned deeply and looked very far away—“ there is 
just one person on whom you might call; one who could, 
and perhaps would do the work. ’ ’ 

Walter Harrison looked absolutely blank for a mo¬ 
ment. Then his face began to lighten. “You don’t mean 

— possibly you do mean . . . ” 

“The only one,” said Doctor Calory, his face had 
cleared, and he looked almost jubilant. “Helen Merry 
has the talent and the experience. She knows just what 
her husband’s methods were in his process of training 
young people. And she has very clearly shown in these 
last few weeks that she is going bravely on in her chosen 
profession. She will remain as leading woman at the 
Hylerion. She would mope and pine away if she stopped 
now — even for a month. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ If she would consent . . . ” Harrison began. 

“I think she would, for his sake — and for yours.” 

“And that may solve also my first problem. Helen’s 
being in the family of Mr. Sayles, if he now recognizes 
her in that relationship, may cause him to feel all right 

— about everything,” Harrison concluded, lamely but 
optimistically. 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


57 


“Or again, it might have just the opposite effect/* 
said the old rector, frowning thoughtfully. “We can’t 
tell, my boy. No one can tell — I don’t know, myself — 
don’t know even what his attitude is at this very moment 
toward Helen Merry. And we can’t begin to guess what 
he may think or say or do about Church theatricals this 
coming season! ’ ’ 

“No; you are right.” Harrison gazed a moment 
through the French window above the rich oak wain¬ 
scoting that lined the room. Then he set his jaw, but his 
voice was very calm and even. 

“ If we can have Miss Merry, I think I will go on with 
the class. We must do ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ even 
if only because John Drake so very much wanted the 
class to do it.” 

‘ ‘ In memory of him, so to speak, ’ ’ said the old rector, 
softly; and Harrison knew that he approved. 




X 


The days were mellow with bright sunshine, and cool 
with the stimulating air of late October. It was the 
season when everyone except the most cynical, feels how 
good it is to live; and when the average person is quite 
ready for any duty that may confront him. 

Walter Harrison, as rector of a great parish, found 
every day all too short for the things that ought to be 
crowded into it. But he was of the fortunate number 
who seem able to work “without haste and without rest” 
He was young and efficient; and he had a true sense of 
humor. So he avoided many things which try the souls 
of the more serious — of those especially who take them¬ 
selves too seriously. 

The church work in general at St. Cyril’s ran along 
like a big machine. There were two or three salaried 
assistants who took from the rector’s shoulders much of 
the routine; and there were scores of volunteers in the 
various organizations. They were of the kind who pre¬ 
ferred as some one has phrased it, to be 11 Oil-cups rather 
than files; ’ ’ and that was why the big machine ran on so 
smoothly. 

Although Harrison deeply appreciated the pleasant 
places in which his lines had fallen, yet sometimes he 
felt the weight of care, and found himself envying those 
whose responsibilities were lighter than his own. More 
than once he would willingly have changed places with 
the humblest member of his congregation. 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


59 


One of his perplexities just now was the attitude of 
Marjorie Sayles, toward the church — and himself. He 
remembered the promise she had made him, that she 
would continue her rounds of visiting those who were in 
poverty and sickness and sorrow. This he quickly dis¬ 
covered that she was doing; and she was meeting her 
group of girls every week in the parish house. And yet 
she had made no mention to Harrison about her work 
since the new season began; nor had she sought his coun¬ 
sel as in former days, as to the people in whom she was 
so deeply interested. She had never offered her help in 
his own problems about needy individuals. Further¬ 
more, neither she nor her father had been in their church 
pew since the funeral of Fred Sayles. Yes — once, Har¬ 
rison remembered; the first Sunday after their return to 
the city; but only once. 

Offsetting in some degree this real disappointment, 
there was the delightful way in which Helen Merry had 
come over to St. Cyril’s and started the season’s work 
for the dramatic class. She seemed not only willing, but 
eager to carry on what John Drake had so remarkably 
begun. 

“I have four motives,” she had said, and Harrison 
had noticed a strain of sadness in her clear, sweet voice. 
‘ ‘ I am doing it for him, for the Church, for Doctor Ca¬ 
lory,— and you. So why shouldn’t I be glad to help? 
I’ll do my very best, and give what time I have — if 
you’d like me to come. ’ ’ 

And the rector could not have desired more than that. 
The group of young people hailed their new “directress” 
with joy. The work went on without a break, and with 



60 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


increasing approach toward perfection. In a few weeks 
“The Merchant of Venice” had been so well rehearsed 
that plans were made to produce it as part of the Christ¬ 
mas program. 

Notwithstanding the manifold duties which October 
brought, Walter Harrison had kept track of his friend 
Bower. He learned that the reformer had been crowded 
out of the old quarters, and now held his meetings in a 
hall only two blocks from St. Cyril’s church. 

After a Monday evening rehearsal of the play, which 
had been much abbreviated to accomodate some of the 
Club members, Harrison asked Miss Merry if she would 
care to step over to the Forum. 

“Under my guardianship,” he said, smiling, “even 
the most eccentric people there won’t stare at you. 
We’re not late, for they never get going as soon as this.” 

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Helen Merry, showing her 
delight like a child. “It will be great fun for me. I 
know I shouldn’t put it that way; but I mean — it will 
be different. I ought to go home and rest up, tonight. 
But I do want to see your friend Mr. Blower.” 

“Bower,” amended the rector, laughing. “No bou¬ 
quets, please — you haven’t met him, yet! ’ ’ 

“No, but I’m going to meet him. And by that time I 
shall probably have another name for him! ’ ’ 

Harrison laughed again, and gave the girl — she 
seemed to him still only a girl — a quick glance of ad¬ 
miration. She looked unusually trim in her navy-blue 
suit; her hat blended perfectly with her black eyes and 
her abundant dark hair. Her bearing brought to his 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


61 


mind Doctor Calory’s description of her as possessing a 
“spritely grace.” 

As Harrison had predicted, the meeting at “Fra¬ 
ternity Hall” had not really begun when they arrived. 
Bower, from his seat at the platform end, saw them 
enter, and nodded cordially. Much to Harrison’s relief, 
however, he w T as not “called up higher.” An usher led 
them to seats in the body of the room. 

After some hearty community singing, and notices of 
coming events, a stringed instrumental quartet played a 
group of classical and popular numbers worthy of a 
symphony hall. Then Bower himself made the evening 
address. His theme was loyalty. It was a clear, well- 
rounded and earnest appeal for adherence to the great 
causes of life. He urged his hearers to find what are 
the highest things, and aim always for them. He 
brought out with vivid picturesqueness the need of loy¬ 
alty to family and friends, to nation and humanity and 
organized religion. 

11 These are the visible symbols, ’ ’ he said, 11 of invisible 
ideals. And as the greatest book says, ‘If we love not 
what we have seen, how can we love what we have not 
seen’?” 

There was no discussion at the close, as the “time¬ 
limit” had expired. Bower good-naturedly confessed to 
his audience that he had talked too long. After the 
wonderfully stirring Battle Hymn of the Republic had 
been sung, the meeting was over. 

Bower was at the door when Helen Merry and her 
escort reached it. Harrison said a brief word or two of 



62 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


congratulation, and presented “Miss Merry, of the Hy- 
lerion company.” 

“It is very wonderful,” she told him with glowing 
face. “And your audience — how they hung on your 
words! ’’ 

“I sometimes envy the crowds that listen to you,” he 
said gallantly, with a smiling bow. 

“Thank you,” said Helen. “But mine come only to 
be entertained — all except a few choice souls that find 
something more. But no one can go away from here 
without being wiser — and better. ’ ’ 

The big reform leader shook his head; but his two ad¬ 
mirers had to consider that others behind them were 
waiting to greet and to be greeted. They passed out, and 
were just about to cross the street, when Harrison 
caught sight of a tall young woman beckoning to a 
taxi. She turned as they were approaching, and the 
rector stepped hurriedly toward her. 

“Miss Marjorie!” he exclaimed. He started to hold 
out his hand, but she made no motion in response. He 
found himself saying something to the effect that he 
was glad to see her constant interest in these community 
undertakings. 

“But I have missed you lately,” he added, “on Sun¬ 
days, I mean — at church. ’ ’ 

“Yes?” Marjorie Sayles’ voice was even, but not re¬ 
sponsive ; her eyes were turned away. 

Harrison hardly knew how to go on. “I hope you’ve 
— been well,” he ventured, lamely. 

“Quite well. Good night, Miss Merry. Good night, 
Doctor Harrison. ’ ’ She stepped into the taxi, and van¬ 
ished into the darkness. 



XI 


The Reverend Walter Harrison found himself several 
times afterwards trying to interpret the chilly atmo¬ 
sphere which enveloped Marjorie Sayles on that Monday 
night. 

She had been so very different, so sweetly responsive 
when he called at her home a few weeks before, to get 
his own bearings and to solve the identity of “John 
Drake. ” It was true that her apparent avoidance of 
him since their return to town, had impressed him. And 
the fact that only once since the summer holidays had 
Mr. Morrison Sayles and Marjorie been at church, had 
made the rector all the more disturbed in his mind. 

He had determined to take the earliest hour of free¬ 
dom in these crowded autumn days, to call at the Sayles 
house and straighten things out. Once he had made it 
a point to run into the banker’s office; but found a direc¬ 
tors ’ meeting going on. So he had scribbled on his card 
a word or two of greeting, and left it with the giant 
guardian of that inner shrine. 

Of course he guessed that his decision to keep up the 
dramatic class was woven in some manner into the back¬ 
ground of it all. He was sincerely sorry that anything 
should stand in the way of unity in the work of St. 
Cyril’s. He felt keen regret that Mr. Morrison Sayles 
or Marjorie should find a personal grievance in any 
phase of that work. He was greatly disturbed to recall 
that Marjorie had taken almost no notice of her own 


64 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


sister-in-law on the night of the Forum meeting. He 
felt that more deeply than the rebuff which had been 
given to him. 

His secretary brought him one morning an envelope 
bearing the familiar imprint of the bank. He caught his 
breath just a trifle, and smiled a bit grimly as he opened 
it. 

After the usual opening lines, the letter began:— 
“My dear Sir and Rector: 

“Since my return to New York early in October, I 
have been so occupied with business affairs that I have 
been compelled to overlook many duties. 

‘ * I desire, however, to write you without further delay, 
on a topic the consideration of which my conscience will 
not allow me longer to postpone. 

“You are aware, I believe, of the relationship between 
myself and the young man at whose burial Doctor Ca¬ 
lory officiated at the Church of the Transformation. 

“That is over. You have learned from others of the 
reason for my feeling regarding the conducting of the¬ 
atricals at St. Cyril’s parish house. The associations 
brought in that way to my mind were most distasteful, 
not to say unbearable. 

‘ ‘ Since returning to the city, in fact, on my first Sun¬ 
day at church, I read in the weekly bulletin of the pro¬ 
posed continuance of the dramatic class. I had hoped it 
would never be revived. But this printed statement 
implied that the memories of bitter years are to be con¬ 
stantly before me, associated with the church, confront¬ 
ing me in my own pew. 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


65 


“The young woman whom my son married,- I have 
always believed, and still believe, was responsible for 
his choice of a career. At all events, her profession be¬ 
came also his; and thereafter they were associated in 
that kind of work. 

“You will understand my emotions, therefore, when 
I saw the announcement that Miss Merry is to be the 
new leader of the ‘ class in dramatics. ’ I regret that she 
was asked to continue in St. Cyril’s parish a work which 
is at least of questionable benefit to any church. I am 
surprised that knowing all the circumstances, she con¬ 
sented to come. For my own happiness I wish that she 
had declined. 

“Even though I shall never see or hear these dramatic 
productions at St. Cyril’s, I cannot refrain from pro¬ 
testing against their continuance. I have decided that 
the only way to register my protest at this time is to 
attend Sunday services elsewhere, and to send in my 
resignation as Warden to the next annual meeting of 
the parish corporation. 

“I have also expressed to my daughter Marjorie my 
desire that she give up her social service activities and 
any other connections that she may have had with St. 
Cyril’s church. 

“I beg to remain 

“Very truly yours 

“Morrison Sayles.” 

When he had finished reading the letter, Walter Har¬ 
rison sat thinking quickly for several minutes. Within 
a step of Broadway’s rushing conflict, he could see 



66 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


around him in this peaceful room, only the tools of 
culture and the emblems of comfort. Almost the only 
sound was the ticking of the friendly clock. 

Then he started up to seek a form of relief which he 
had often sought before when his mind was troubled or 
his soul cast down. He put on an old soft hat, walked 
briskly up to the junction of Broadway and Fifth Ave¬ 
nue, and jumped on a “bus.” The late October air was 
like old wine. He chose a seat on the top, mingling thus 
with a dozen tourists who represented probably as many 
different states of the Union. He enjoyed watching the 
sight-seers, and rubbing elbows with them. He liked to 
hear their widely varying comments on the great city of 
which he felt himself a part. Sometimes he allowed him¬ 
self the fun of imagining that he owned all the Fifth 
Avenue busses, and these passengers were his guests. 
He wondered if they liked the smell of gasoline — he 
liked even that — or if they could ever begin to know 
and love Fifth Avenue as he did. 

With his happy ability of lending himself to his sur¬ 
roundings, with his sense of humor and lightness of 
heart, he found himself soon free from all the perplexing 
problems of his professional life. And when a round¬ 
eyed youngster sitting beside him held out invitingly a 
bag of buttered popcorn, he helped himself so joyously 
and so generously that the boy showed actual relief to 
have the bag returned not entirely empty. 



XII 


“Aunt Murilla, will you do me a little favor?” 

Miss Murilla’s keen but kindly eyes turned searchingly 
on her nephew across the little breakfast table. 

“It all depends, Walter. I can’t read your mind. But 
I’ll do almost anything except hold a reception for 
homeless waifs. ’ ’ 

“Nothing like that, this time,” said Harrison, smiling. 
“It’s — well, I want you to act as chaperon.” 

“Chaperon! And what kind of a party is it? and 
where? How late in the night will it end? I want to 
know, young man, what I’m getting into! ’ ’ 

4 ‘ It will be a party of just three, including you. The 
place will be the roof-garden of the Alpine Hotel. The 
return home will be at a very proper and absurdly early 
hour.” 

“So far, so good,” said his aunt, briskly. “But who 
is she ?— and why this sudden mad gayety ? ’ ’ 

“Well —” Harrison’s voice betrayed the slightest hint 
of embarrassment—“I’m only inviting to dinner a 
young woman who has very little time for recreation, or 
inclination for gayety. That is why I’m asking her. 
It’s Helen Merry. I’d like to invite her — and you — to 
have dinner and hear a little music next Monday evening 
at the roof-garden. It’s really very pretty there, I am 
told, at this season; closed in now, of course, but you get 
the atmosphere, and have a wonderful view of the city. ’ ’ 


68 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


“Very good,” said his aunt. “I’m only glad that 
your friend isn’t some one with a social service fad. 
When I go out to dine I don’t want to hear shop talk all 
evening. And Miss Merry probably doesn’t do that. 
In fact, I fear she isn’t serious enough. Not so very long 
ago that her husband died — wasn’t John Drake her hus¬ 
band?” 

“Yes, but in their profession, one has to keep on going. 
One can’t weep or mope — or even think very much about 
the past. But I know, and Doctor Calory knows, how 
strongly knit together they were. It’s all the more ad¬ 
mirable for that reason, I think, that Helen Merry is 
coming through it so well. Her regular work, besides 
what she is doing for our young church people, has 
helped her stay in the path of duty. All right — then 
it’s fixed for Monday night! I haven’t asked Miss 
Merry yet; had to be sure first of the chaperon! But I 
know she will be free that evening, for I questioned her 
yesterday about it.” 

“Sounded her out a bit?” Miss Murilla’s question 
ended in a soft chuckle. “Well, that’s wise. For how 
greatly disappointed your old aunt would have been if 
this pretty plan had fallen through! ’ ’ 

“I should have had to take you anyway, in that 
case!” laughed her nephew. “No, of course I don’t 
mean I should have had to. It would have been a real 
pleasure. ’ ’ 

“Next best to nothing,” suggested Miss Harrison, try¬ 
ing hard to look grieved. She took his arm, according 
to her invariable custom as they left the breakfast room. 
They opened one of the French windows, and breathed 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


69 


for a while the wonderful mid-autumn air; then sepa¬ 
rated to take up the morning’s duties. 

A favorite saying of Walter Harrison’s was that 
beauty in sight is closely associated with beauty in 
sound. And when to these there is added the pleasure 
of a good dinner deftly served, with companions of one’s 
choice, not much remains to be desired. 

The evening of the Alpine roof-garden dinner could 
not have been surpassed. The air that came through the 
partly opened windows was like cool champagne; and 
the light now appearing from the myriad streets and 
“displays” far below shone with wondrous brilliance. 
In the great dining room there was the usual blend of 
color and mirth and beauty. 

When the little coffee-cups came on, Helen Merry gave 
a sigh of happiness. 

“This is a very rare treat for me,” she said, a little 
tremor in her rich clear voice. “You know, I don’t have 
time for these things; and on performance nights, it 
must be a late supper or nothing at all. It’s wonderful 
to dine at a civilized hour! And up here — well, it’s 
just . . .” 

“A little bit of heaven?” suggested Harrison, smiling 
at her. 

“Nothing less,” she said, softly. 

“Very, very enjoyable,” declared Miss Murilla, in a 
tone which challenged any dissent. “Will you young 
people excuse me for a few moments? I see my old 
friends Judge Brownlow and Mrs. Brownlow there, near 
that jardiniere, and I must speah to them. I won’t be 



70 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


long, ’ ’ she added, and disappeared behind a tall waiter. 

Harrison smiled. “Isn’t she an ideal chaperon? 
‘Tactful’ doesn’t begin to describe her. I think she left 
us so that I could tell you how charming you look to¬ 
night.” 

“Couldn’t you have said that in her presence?” 
Helen Merry’s voice was reproachful, but her eyes held 
a gleam of mischief. 

“I shall tell her the same thing when we get home,” 
he declared. 

“About herself?” asked Helen, demurely. 

“About you.” 

‘ ‘ That is all right, then; I shan’t be present and have 
to blush.” 

The orchestra was beginning the unrivalled “Barca¬ 
rolle” of Offenbach; and over the space of tables, with 
their festive and talkative groups, there came an unusual 
stillness. 

“How everyone loves that!” said Harrison, as the 
final notes with their wonderfully appealing rhythm 
floated softly away. 

“It is a real expression of life,” said Helen Merry. 

‘ ‘ It has aspiration and youth — and poetry. ’ 9 

“All that, and more. I have often thought I’d like 
to write a novel, and have two young people on their 
honeymoon go sailing away the first evening in an air¬ 
plane, and that melody would go with them: 

“ ‘Wondrous Night, 0 Night of Love, . . .’ 

“I’d weave that through the story — and then chang¬ 
ing a little the phrase in the old psalm, I would have for 
the title of my book, ‘ The Wings of Night \ ’ ’ 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


71 


‘ ‘ What a romantic idea! ’ ’ exclaimed Helen, laughing 
softly. Then, with quick seriousness, she said, “But I 
think it would work out beautifully in a story.” 

“I’m afraid my plot is not very extensive. I haven’t 
gone much beyond that. But such a scene as this — the 
lights and music and the fragrances — how it all helps 
to drive away the world’s drabness and dreariness! 
There is plenty of those things down there below us. ’ ’ 

4 ‘ That is so true, ’ ’ said Helen Merry. ‘ ‘ And these are 
lasting treasures; for the mind can never forget them. 
Even with the bitter the sweet is there. I remember 
reading in a little book ‘The Inn of Disenchantment,’ 
a sentence something like this — I have often read it 
over — 

“ ‘Are facts important? Is it not effects 
in memory; the flavor of one or two 
forgotten hours; the haunting melody 
of a little song; the perfume of roses 
dead forever — and a last little glimmer 
of lights extinct V ” 

At Judge Brownlow’s table, his wife was saying, in 
subdued excitement: 

“Miss Merry? You mean it is Helen Merry of the 
Hylerion? Why, she’s not only chic — she’s absolutely 
pretty! And dining with your nephew and you! My 
dear Miss Harrison, do tell me all about her! ’ ’ 



XIII 


Seated again one afternoon in Doctor Calory’s study, 
Walter Harrison leaned back in the big Morris chair 
and drew a long breath of relief. 

“Yes, thank you,” he said; “it will just hit the right 
spot. Your good tea always does that. And I’d much 
rather have it here with you than stand around in a 
crowd and hold my chinaware with two or three fingers. ’ ’ 

“And try to serve some helpless women at the same 
time,” said the old rector, with his peculiar throaty 
chuckle. 

“And talk to everyone!” Harrison went on, raising 
his eyes in humorous despair. “ It’s terrible, sometimes, 
I so often feel I’d rather be writing, or doing the hardest 
kind of work.” 

“What is your hardest work?” asked Doctor Calory. 
* ‘ Different men have different hardships as well as hob¬ 
bies. I believe my own chief dread has been climbing up 
pitch-dark tenement stairways, and sitting in rooms that 
are wholly devoid of fresh air. ’ ’ 

The younger man was silent for a moment, then he 
said: 

“I haven’t seemed to mind that kind of thing so much. 
I believe what wears on me most is to see people lose 
interest in the best things of life; to have my best work¬ 
ers in church suddenly drop away. It’s bad for the 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


73 


work, of course; and doubly bad for those who ‘flop’ in 
such a pitiful fashion.” 

“Absolutely bad — utterly disheartening,” agreed 
the old rector. “But then, think how many there are 
who are always dependable, helping gladly, wisely, and 
well. The good Lord gives every leader a taste at least, 
of the salt of the earth! ’’ 

“Yes; and perhaps it is to train us in discernment, 
that it occasionally ‘loses its savor.’ Then we have to 
see whether it can be brought back; ‘Wherewith shall it 
be salted’?” 

“Ah, that no one can tell!” exclaimed Doctor Calory. 
‘ ‘ I believe in personal responsibility and free will; and 
for that very reason, I think that a man or a woman can 
‘come back’ strongly, just as he — or she — failed and 
slumped so miserably. Even Peter was restored, you 
know. ’ ’ 

“Yes — but he was rock salt,” suggested Harrison, 
smilingly. ‘ ‘ However, the possibility of anyone’s coming 
back ought to cheer us up a lot. But I wish you would 
tell me what to think —-or do — about this.” 

He took from his pocket the letter which had come to 
him a few days previously from Morrison Sayles. 

“Finish your tea, my boy — too good to waste. I’ve 
had two cups, so perhaps I can get the point of this.” 

The old rector looked quickly at the signature, then 
frowned and snapped on his glasses. 

“ H’m! sort of a double-barreled gun he is using! ” he 
said, sharply, as he handed the letter back. “Removes 
himself and his daughter at the same clip. All because 
he doesn’t like Helen Merry’s coming over to you and 




74 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


keeping up her husband’s work. Yes, I knew it was 
likely to have that result on him. You took the chance 
— and I was glad you did. If we stopped any depart¬ 
ment of the Church’s work, in order to please peculiar 
people — what department would be running today? 
Of course, we know how it comes back to him with bitter 
associations of the past. But I did hope that he would 
let all the bitter part of it be forgotten. ’ ’ 

“That was one of my fondest hopes,” said Harrison. 
“I wonder,” Doctor Calory suddenly suggested, “if 
either of them ever did really like Helen Merry ? ’ ’ 

“My opinion is — probably not. I don’t think they 
have ever forgiven her for marrying Fred. ’ ’ 

Both men sat in silence for several minutes. Then 
Harrison said: 

‘ ‘ The worst of it really is, losing Marjorie Sayles from 
the work. She has been in charge of all our sociological 
and Community efforts; and in that work she has no 
superior. My assistant can’t do it — he has to look after 
the Sunday School and the East Side chapel. And no 
one but Marjorie has the time and talent — and ex¬ 
perience.” 

“Too bad — it is too bad!” muttered the rector of 
The Church Around the Comer. ‘ ‘ Not only for you and 
the work, but for their own sakes. Suppose you let me 
study it for a day or two? Then I’ll call you up. But 
come again soon, anyway!” He took the younger rec¬ 
tor’s hand in his own firm grip, as they both rose. 

The moment Harrison had gone, Doctor Calory 
dropped into his chair again. He was in profound 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


75 


thought when his faithful old servant came to remind 
him that he was to dine out that evening. 

“Bless my soul, so I am!” he exclaimed. “It’s the 
Clericus, at seven o’clock. I can’t comprehend where 
the time has gone! ’ ’ 



XIV 


The theory that the mind works out our problems and 
solves our perplexities while we sleep has many advo¬ 
cates. The rector of The Church of the Transformation 
had cheerfully accepted this view, together with many 
other modern doctrines of science. 

‘ ‘ Why shouldn’t my sub-conscious self be just as really 
‘I’ as my super-conscious self?” he often demanded, if 
anyone ventured to express doubt on the subject. 

At all events, the day after his talk with Harrison he 
seemed to have no cares or vexations, and to be in unusu¬ 
ally good spirits. After lunch, without waiting for his 
regular relaxation, sometimes known as “forty winks,” 
he left the rectory almost precipitously, and took the 
bus for Riverside Drive. Many of his parishioners had 
built or bought wonderful mansions on the Drive; but 
they had not deserted “The Church Around the Cor¬ 
ner.” 

Of these, one was Mrs. Stuyvesant Stevens, a woman 
of large heart and generous purse. To her Doctor Calory 
had telephoned, to make sure of an early afternoon ap¬ 
pointment. 

In her large reception room he met with a glad and 
very gracious welcome. A half-hour later, taking his 
leave, he was saying: 

“My idea, you see, would be not to announce any 
names — just call it a dramatic evening, or something 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


77 


like that. And if yon have it on a Monday night, I’m 
quite sure you could get the regular company. Everyone 
will like it immensely — I’m positive of that. And I’ve 
told you the motive behind my idea — just between our¬ 
selves. A worthy one — hut I fear it’s imposing on your 
good will, my dear Mrs. Stevens. ’ ’ 

“Not at all, Doctor — nothing of the kind. It will 
take the place of a musicale or recital that I had been 
planning to have soon; and this will be still better. I ’ll 
keep you informed as to how things are going; and we’ll 
plan for the sixteenth. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Stuyvesant Stevens had an enviable reputation 
for doing things promptly and in just the right way; 
and if she felt so inclined, to spare no thought or expense 
on whatever the program might be. She could have been 
found that evening seated at a quaint little antique desk, 
having chosen some fascinating stationery embossed with 
the Stuyvesant coat-of-arms. 

“My dear Miss Merry: 

“I am having a little party for some friends, the eve¬ 
ning of the sixteenth, at my house. My desire is to have 
something different from the usual thing — from bridge 
or music. 

“Knowing your excellent professional work at the 
Hylerion, and the wonderfully able company there, it 
occurred to me that I might persuade you and the com¬ 
pany to give the play for us. 

“I believe you have no regular performance at the 
theatre on Monday evenings, or that you have under¬ 
studies for the leading parts. I have made a provisional 
plan, therefore, for the sixteenth; or if that is not pos- 





78 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


sible on such brief notice, then the twenty-third. This 
later date, however, would bring it rather close to the 
Thanksgiving holiday season. 

“Without dictating in the least degree as to the play 
you give, I venture to hope it may be Shakespearean — 
I think your company has done several of these recently. 
May I suggest further, that it be, if possible, The 
Merchant of Venice? 

11 1 will ask you to fix your own price; I shall be glad 
to pay it, and the obligation will be wholly mine if you 
consent to come. 

“Sincerely yours, 

“Mary Stuyvesant Stevens.’’ 

Within twenty-four hours the answer came: 

“My dear Mrs. Stevens: 

“Your letter arrived by messenger last night, and I 
was able to present your interesting proposal to the 
company after the performance. 

“Usually the principals of our company much prefer 
to have our Mondays free: one night in seven we feel we 
like to be relieved from duty. In this case, however, we 
shall be glad to respond. It is not often our privilege to 
give a special performance on the Drive! 

“The Company has decided, with our business man¬ 
ager’s approval, to ask that the amount of the payment 
be left wholly to you; and that it shall be turned over to 
the East Side Orphanage. 

“We shall be delighted, on the sixteenth, to present 
The Merchant of Venice. 

“Yours very sincerely 

“Helen Merry.” 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


79 


The next letter was written and sent by Mrs. Stuyve- 
sant Stevens, as soon as she had read the reply from 
Helen Merry. It was addressed to Morrison Sayles, Esq. 
“My dear old friend: 

“Yon will be doing me a great favor if you and Mar¬ 
jorie will come up to a very informal little affair at my 
house the evening of the sixteenth, at nine o’clock. 

“It will be a dramatic evening — a Shakespearean 
play. I know that your days are very full. I happen, as 
one of your very old playmates, to know also that you 
hardly play at all; and therefore your nights are quite 
free from conflicting pleasures. 

“I am sure you will come, just to please the rapidly 
ageing person who signs herself, 

“As in former years 

‘ ‘ Mary Stuyvesant Stevens. ’ ’ 



XV 


“Didn’t think he’d accept — didn’t really think so; 
but I’m delighted, of course. Sorry Marjorie isn’t going 
with him, but it’s the first step. No, I’ll stay away to¬ 
night, Mrs. Stevens. Wouldn’t do, you know, for me to 
be there; not at all! But if you’ll let me, I’ll call to¬ 
morrow afternoon, and hear all about it. Good bye.” 

Doctor Calory hung up the telephone receiver with a 
beaming smile on his face. He went to the front door 
and opened it, standing in the bright sunlight of a mild 
November day, and still smiling. Catching sight of a 
neighbor’s small boy, he bestowed some silver on him and 
asked him to get “a few ice cream cones” at the little 
shop near by. 

“Bring me one,” he said—“only one; the rest will 
be yours.” 

He paced slowly between the open door and his study, 
and addressed a few thoughts to a big purring “Tabby” 
who was seated on the stairway of the hall, on a level 
with the old rector’s vision. 

4 ‘ Strange that he would go to anything like that — so 
soon after . . . But why not ? A private affair, old 

friend — and all that! And she had no knowledge — 
before I told her — of the unhappy recent years in his 
life. Just the right person; things couldn’t have gone 
better. Providential, one might say. Ah, here is the 
ice cream. Thank you, Bobby — keep the rest; give one 
to your mother, with my love. ’ ’ 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


81 


The next afternoon the rector of The Church Around 
the Corner sat again in the genial presence of Mrs. Stuy- 
vesant Stevens. She looked radiant and very happy. 

“I don’t know how it’s all coming out, Doctor Calory. 
But it was wonderful, and seemed to be a great success. 
The ball-room was full — almost everybody came. You 
know I have a very large stage at one end; and the room 
itself will seat over two hundred. Well, my friends 
simply showered congratulations on me. I felt like a 
dreadful hypocrite; for it wasn’t my idea at all, but 
yours! ’ ’ 

The old rector smiled deprecatingly; then, frowning a 
little, questioned: 

“ And — the play ? ’ ’ 

“ Simply superb. Dozens of people declared that the 
Hylerion players never had done anything any better. 
Harry Dare — the leading man there now — played 
Bassanio; Lorrie Winn was Shylock. And, of course, 
Helen Merry was Portia. 

‘‘If I live till I’m ninety-nine, Doctor Calory, I shall 
never hope to see anything so sweet and sincere — and 
convincing. She lost herself in the part as completely as 
any actress can ever do; and that’s saying a good deal. 
She was best, of course, in the casket scene — and as the 
‘Judge’ between Shylock and Antonio. 

“I have read somewhere a description of Portia as 
having ‘Intellect kindled into romance by a practical 
imagination. ’ That is surely a blend of great qualities; 
but Miss Merry brought it out most wonderfully. Those 
lines in the casket scene, 

‘You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, 

Such as I am . . .’ 



82 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


were perfect in feeling and proportion. And you know 
how expressive that glorious clear voice of hers is. 

“And then, the scene with Shylock! My dear Doctor 
Calory, I have attended scores of Shakespearean plays — 
I’ve seen Irving, Terry, Sothern, Marlowe, Mantell; 
but I never shall forget Helen Merry in her quaint make¬ 
up as the ‘Doctor of Laws/ And how she read those 
wonderful lines — you remember them — 

‘The quality of mercy is not strained; 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven 

Upon the place beneath; it is twice blest: 

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes \ ’ ’ 

Doctor Calory nodded. “I’ve often thought what a 
lot of Scripture is woven right into those few lines — 
giving, forgiving, the Golden Rule . . . ” 

“Yes — everything like that. And best of all, its 
effect on him. ’ ’ 

“Ah, yes! Seldom is a whole play staged for one man 
— and without his knowledge or consent! And how did 
Sayles take it? What did he do? Will the result be 
what we hoped?’’ 

“Well, he seemed to be getting just what he needed; 
and I suppose that was really the thing we hoped for. 
He sat with me, in the third row of chairs. He came in 
just a moment or two late; returned my greeting, then 
looked at his program. His face that instant was a study, 
but he controlled himself perfectly. Wlien Portia 
entered in the second scene and spoke her opening line — 
let me see if I remember it — 

‘ My little body is aweary of this great world . . . * 

“I couldn’t help looking at him then. But he didn’t 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


83 


change color or move a muscle. But when she finished 
the lines that give such a wonderful meaning to—‘the 
quality of mercy/ that man was actually shedding 
tears.” 

“Do you really mean to say . . .” Doctor Calory 

interrupted, almost breathlessly. 

‘ ‘ Exactly; he was doing just that. I ’ve known Morri¬ 
son Sayles in the days gone by; but never have I seen 
him give way to any such emotions. Only once — when 
his wife died. ’ ’ 

The society woman and the old rector sitting straight 
in their chairs, as they faced each other in silence for a 
moment, would have seemed to a visitor suddenly enter¬ 
ing, like figures in a painting by some great artist. 

Then Doctor Calory said: 

‘ ‘ And after the play ? ’ ’ 

“We had some little refreshments in this reception 
room. Almost everyone came down, of course—the 
players, too; and we had a wonderful time. But Mor¬ 
rison Sayles didn’t stay for that. He took leave almost 
as soon as the curtain went down; but he thanked me 
for inviting him. 

“ ‘I always admired everything of Shakespeare’s,’ he 
said. ‘I didn’t know, that is, I hadn’t guessed that it 
would be these particular actors — and actresses, to¬ 
night. But it was to be informal, and it was you who 
asked me; so I came. In some ways, ’ he went on, ‘ it has 
been, yes — I may say — a pleasant — a pleasant shock. 1 

“And then he bowed — one of those exquisite low 
bows, just the same as in the old days — and said, 
‘Good night’.” 



XVI 


The rector of St. Cyril’s took a second piece of bacon 
with its accompanying egg from the inviting platter 
before him. 

“The colder weather gives me an appetite, Aunt 
Murilla, ’ ’ he said, attempting a humorous apology. 

“Perhaps other things help, as well as weather condi¬ 
tions,” his aunt suggested in her crisp manner. “Things 
all going well in the parish, I take it.” 

“Oh, yes — church crowded last Sunday; you didn’t 
come out at night, did you ? Ted Keswick preached for 
me, you know; and we couldn’t begin to provide seats 
for everyone. Yes, things go along all right, except the 
social service work — I haven’t yet found a leader for 
that.” 

He looked thoughtful for a moment; then his face 
lighted with his youthful smile. 

“The Christmas play by our dramatic club will be a 
stunner! Did you realize, Aunt Murilla, that it comes 
next week?” 

“You don’t mean to tell me that we are as near 
Christmas as that!” exclaimed Miss Murilla, in the 
same helpless horror which for an indefinite number of 
years she had always shown at this season. 

“It comes without fail, and usually much too soon 
for me, ’ ’ declared her nephew. * ‘ Not because it’s Christ¬ 
mas, of course; only that so many duties and engage- 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


85 


ments crowd around it. But I can’t help it — Christmas 
Eve is only ten days away! ’ ’ 

Quickly indeed from that morning the days and nights 
rushed by; and the great city of New York found itself 
at the opening of its winter holidays. 

Holidays they were in reality only for the favored few 
— and the children. But for everyone there comes at 
Christmas-time a change at least of atmosphere; there 
is a different spirit in the very air. The outward signs 
of it are seen in the millions of dollars and tons of 
merchandise that change hands; and the myriads of 
people in homes and hotels, in theatres and churches, 
who “make merry and are glad.” 

The parish house of St. Cyril’s was at this season more 
than ever an active centre of every good work. For 
days and even weeks previous, various societies had been 
packing and sending off boxes of necessities and luxuries, 
to places far and near. 

One familiar figure, however, was missing this year 
from the groups of volunteers. More than once the 
question was asked: 

“Where has Marjorie Sayles disappeared to?” 

And some one would answer, as did Bertha Seabury 
on one such occasion — 

“Nobody seems to know. I asked Doctor Harrison, 
and he just looked serious, and said that Marjorie is the 
only one who can speak authentically about it. Some¬ 
body else said Marjorie had a brother who died nearly 
a year ago, and she hasn’t ever got over it; and still 
another report is that she is very keen just now about 



86 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


Hal Bower’s Forum work. So—” concluded the fair 
volunteer —“take your choice!’’ 

Notwithstanding the many festivities of a domestic or 
club nature held on Christmas Eve, it had been the an¬ 
nual custom at St. Cyril’s to have a social affair for the 
church people and older members of the Sunday School 
on that night; closing with a musical service of impres¬ 
sive beauty in the church itself, ending at midnight. 

Walter Harrison always looked forward with delight 
to the Eve of the Natal Day. He enjoyed every event to 
the utmost. 

And to have a play such as The Merchant of Venice, 
given by the young people themselves, was an unusual 
thing. The annual entertainments had varied, some¬ 
times having taken the form of a concert or a Bible mov¬ 
ing picture story. 

Helen Merry had the full direction of the play, with 
able amateur prompters and other assistance; she herself 
took the part of Portia. 

Harrison had not seen any of the rehearsals. He was 
happily impressed with the smoothness of the whole per¬ 
formance. And he found himself experiencing a pecu¬ 
liar thrill of delight in the beautiful interpretation of 
Portia by Helen Merry. 

He felt — momentarily at least — that not even Julia 
Marlowe could have done anything better. With his 
aunt, kindly but keen, seated next him, and members 
of his flock all around him, he knew that his applause 
and comments must be neither profuse nor partial. But 
he allowed himself to beam with approval at some of 
Portia’s finest lines, and he applauded with vigor hut 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


87 


without undue exhilaration, at the close of her best 
scenes. 

He went into the church with a kind of exalted feel¬ 
ing that resulted from the refreshing of his mind and 
the social contact with his people. The play had seemed 
not so much a single setting to Christmas Eve, as a fit¬ 
ting prelude to usher in the greater Day. 

It was a service largely of music — the Communion, 
with compositions by one or two of the great masters. 
There was no sermon; the offering, it was announced, 
would be given to the Salvation Army. 

Just as the clocks and chimes of the city sounded the 
hour of midnight, the choir and the great congregation 
arose and sang the wonderful carol of Phillip Brooks, 
‘‘0 Little Child of Bethlehem.” 

As the people left the church, Harrison stood in the 
vestibule according to his annual custom, to greet every¬ 
one with a “Merry Christmas.” 

Turning at last and walking up the aisle, he felt a 
sudden weariness. He knew it was the reaction from an 
interesting but overcrowded day. Things had gone well, 
and he was not in the least depressed. He saw that 
Jones, the faithful old sexton, had extinguished many 
of the lights in the church, leaving only two in the chan¬ 
cel, which spread a soft radiance over the beautiful 
sanctuary at the east end. 

Harrison went up the marble steps of the choir, and 
at the altar rail turned to the north side of the chancel, 
to snap off the two remaining lights. As he turned, a 
quick exclamation escaped his lips. The years had 
trained him in self-control, and to speak softly in sacred 



88 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


places. But in the sudden surprise of the moment, he 
found his voice echoing through the great church, of 
which he had thought himself the only occupant. 

Two figures were kneeling at the altar rail. The face 
of one — the woman — was buried in her hands. The 
finely cut features of the other, like a soldier’s, were 
set straight to the front. 

It was a situation unlike anything in Harrison’s ex¬ 
perience ; even though finding people in a prayerful atti¬ 
tude could hardly affect him strangely. He stood look¬ 
ing down at them quietly for a moment; then knelt be¬ 
side the man. Though still bewildered, he felt glad that 
his exclamation of a moment before had not disturbed 
the rapt devotion of these persons. 

A neighboring clock chimed a half hour after midnight 
before the three arose. Morrison Sayles was the first to 
speak. 

“I feel — better now,” he said. “I think I know 
what it means to forgive — and to be forgiven.” 

“Ah, yes!” Harrison found himself groping for the 
right words. Then he went on, with a kind of subdued 
haste: 

“And what better place — there could be none more 
helpful than this! I am so glad that you — and Miss 
Marjorie came tonight.” 

Marjorie Sayles stood straight and still. One of the 
lights now shone directly on her face. Harrison thought 
of some painting he had lately seen — a golden-haired 
young saint making a momentous decision. Bathed in 
the mellow radiance of the sanctuary, her head seemed 
encircled by a well-defined halo. 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


89 


“I am very glad that I came,” she said at last. “I 
am grateful for all that has happened tonight. The 
service — and what went before it. I have found —I 
think my father and I have found — that ‘the quality 
of mercy is not strained’.” 

“ ‘It is twice blest’,” the rector of St. Cyril’s re¬ 
sponded softly: “ ‘It blesseth him that gives — and him 
that takes’.” 



XVII 


On a lovely evening in May, the rector of St. Cyril's 
sat at a little table on the roof-garden of the Alpine 
Hotel. A number of other diners recognized him, and 
tried in various ways to gain his attention. But he was 
absorbed in the person and conversation of his vis-a-vis. 
He was oblivious of the presence of the crowd, the wait¬ 
ers, even the food before him. 

“It leaves one hardly anything to desire,” Helen 
Merry was saying; her voice was low, yet vibrant with 
the joy of living. “He insists that I call him ‘Father 
Sayles,' and he speaks of me always now as his ‘other 
daughter.' You ought just to see my room — my suite 
of rooms — there at the house! It’s perfect — actually 
heavenly! And I sleep as late as I need to — usually 
most of the morning. Father Sayles was just like a lamb 
when I told him how much I wanted to finish out the 
season's work at the theatre.” 

“And — Marjorie?” asked Walter Harrison. 

“Couldn’t be sweeter or more considerate if she were 
my very own sister. ’ ’ 

The rector beamed on her through his glasses. “It’s 
all due to Doctor Calory,” he said. “He did some fine 
work. He told me all about it — how he got Mr. Sayles 
‘in front of the footlights' at Mrs. Stevens’ party.” 

‘ ‘ Good old Doctor Calory!'' exclaimed Helen. ‘ ‘ I love 
him. He is my own rector, you know. ’ ’ 


THE QUALITY OP MERCY 


91 


“Yes — oh yes, of course.” Harrison’s tone was just 
a trifle dubious. 

* ‘ It makes me all the more glad, ’ ’ Helen went on, ‘‘ be¬ 
cause all last fall and winter I was actually in anguish. 
Not so much on account of Mr. Sayles— Father Sayles 
— toward me; but rather my realization that helping the 
dramatic work at St. Cyril’s, I was really holding its 
other work back — because they were staying away.” 

“So it transpired,’’ said Harrison, smiling. ‘‘But it 
was my risk, you know. I asked you — with my eyes 
open. ’ ’ 

“You must have wanted the dramatic work — very 
much,” Helen’s pretty brows were arched, and her 
cheeks were flushed. 

“Yes; we needed it. I wouldn’t have disappointed 
those young people in their work — they had put so 
much into it. And I felt very strongly, that the founda¬ 
tions Fred had laid must endure — in memory of him. 
How fine and how fitting that you should carry on his 
work! ’ ’ 

“Poor Fred,” said Helen softly. “He was a dear 
boy. Yes, I did it — for him. ’ ’ 

“And then,” Harrison went on, “I should be leaving 
out a lot if I didn’t tell you how much it has meant to 
me. It has made me very happy to have you working 
for St. Cyril’s — doing it, in that sense — for me.” 

Helen’s eyes were directed at the myriad lights of the 
city far down below. At last she said: 

“Yes; in that sense — perhaps in some other senses, I 
did it for you.” 

Walter Harrison was on the verge of asking what 



92 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


other senses she meant. But his training and his pro¬ 
fession had taught him restraint. These had triumphed 
methodically over his naturally impulsive and very hu¬ 
manly inclined temperament. 

As he looked steadfastly at her, with admiration and 
yet perfect respect, he saw both these things in her eyes, 
now gazing fearlessly into his own. A faint sweet odor 
of heliotrope came to him from somewhere on her person. 

The tables around them were now quite deserted. 
Their waiter had quietly slipped the check under Har¬ 
rison’s finger-bowl and departed. The orchestra in a 
distant alcove was playing a dreamy waltz. 

The rector of St. Cyril’s spoke in a tone that was low, 
but vibrantly rapid: 

‘ ‘ Helen, you did me the honor of coming here tonight 
at my invitation, and without a chaperon. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I needed no one to protect me — from you. ’ ’ 

* ‘ Most certainly I needed none, ’ ’ he went on, quickly, 
“unless for the sake of what is called ‘convention.’ You 
know the clergyman is supposed to build all sorts of 
bulwarks around himself! But tonight I wanted no bul¬ 
warks— no conventions. I wanted only to be here — 
with that beautiful music; with those wonderful lights 
of New York below us; and with you just where you are 
now. ’ ’ 

“And so you are perfectly happy?” Helen’s voice was 
hardly audible. 

“Perfectly? No, not quite that. I am in pursuit of 
perfect happiness. ’ ’ 

“I suppose,” said Helen, “that is the aim of every- 



THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


93 


“Yes; but one’s ideals can be found sometimes in a 
personality. I am now in the presence of that person¬ 
ality. But I haven’t yet attained to it. It isn’t yet 
mine. ’ ’ 

“Doctor Harrison, I don’t understand — you don’t 
mean . . 

“Yes, I mean you, Helen — dear. Would it be asking 
you to give up too much — your work, your independent 
life, to be just the wife of a very prosaic minister? 
Would it be taking away your freedom?” 

That happy little twinkle which he had learned to 
love appeared for a fleeting instant in her eyes. 

“You say ‘would it?’ Does that mean that you 
haven’t yet asked me to — to give it up?” 

“No, dear Helen. That is only my bungling manner 
of speech. But will it — will it take away your free¬ 
dom? Am I asking too much?” 

Helen was silent a moment. Then she said, slowly: 

“It wouldn’t be that. I am giving up my work soon 
anyway, you know, for the sake of Father Sayles. And 
as for freedom . . .” 

The distant music was wafted to them a shade more 
clearly now on the wings of the gentle air of May. It 
was the beautiful Barcarolle; its rendering by the mu¬ 
sicians seemed to make the surroundings still more 
magical, its melody enveloped them enchantingly: 

“Wondrous night, O night of Love . . 

‘ ‘ I have always believed, ’ ’ said Helen Merry, when the 
music had ceased, “that the truest freedom — is love.” 

And Walter Harrison, looking far down into her soul, 
saw there the trustful declaration of utter surrender. 




XVIII 


Of course it was decided that the ceremony should be 
in The Church Around the Corner, otherwise known as 
The Church of the Transformation. And none other 
than Doctor Calory was even considered as properly able 
or eligible to officiate. An additional binding of the tie, 
however, would be done by Bishop Beech, beloved by 
all concerned. 

It needs hardly to be stated except as a matter of 
record, that on the appointed morning in January, the 
church was crowded to the aisles and doors. The Hy- 
lerion Company and hundreds of other members of the 
profession, some noted, some aspiring still, many as yet 
unknown to fame; these came from near and far, in¬ 
cluding a delegation from Chicago. The Junior Parsons’ 
Club appeared in full force; many ‘ ‘ clerics ’ ’ of various 
denominations, who knew Harrison, both as a friend 
and a fraternal spirit; the Vestry of St. Cyril’s, repre¬ 
sentation of many city clubs and organizations with 
which Harrison was affiliated. The overflowing remain¬ 
der was made up largely of people of St. Cyril’s and The 
Transformation, to whom a general invitation had been 
given. Harrison and Helen both had insisted on a very 
simple service, and that the church doors should be wide 
open, admitting all who wanted to come and could get in. 

It was a happy but a reverent gathering. Many 
people afterward declared that the assembly in itself 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


95 


was unusual and unique; and the overwhelming opinion 
was that no prettier wedding or more charming bride 
had ever been seen. It was also affirmed that Wally 
Young, the talented organist, had never been quite so 
plainly inspired as in his rendering of the music on this 
occasion. 

The ‘ ‘ breakfast 9 9 following, in the big Sayles mansion, 
was a very jolly affair. Walter Harrison, like all other 
bridegrooms of past and present, was in a kind of ecstatic 
daze. He answered the hundreds of congratulations 
with words which in his later and more lucid moments, 
he devoutly hoped had seemed in some degree coherent. 

Miss Murilla, in her finest black silk gown, had a diffi¬ 
cult time. She assured everyone that she had “lost her 
boy,” but that she was going to turn over the rectory 
without delay to its new mistress. 

“Helen has married him,” she declared, striking her 
palm with her ivory fan, ‘ ‘ and the house shall be hers. I 
am going to Boston to spend my waning years.” 

Hal Bower strode around like a good-natured giant. 
He smiled even when no one was looking at him, as if he 
had some happy secret of his own. 

When the breakfast was over, and toasts had been 
given to all the “principals,” with the Bishop as toast¬ 
master, Bower asked if he might say a word. 

“Now that we have wished every good thing possible 
to these people, ’’ he said, ‘ ‘ I rise to make an announce¬ 
ment. You will forgive me for any personal exultation 
which I may display at this time. But I venture to put 
myself on a plane of happiness equal to that of our be¬ 
loved Doctor Harrison. He believes that he is the most 



96 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


fortunate man in the world; but I dispute his claim. I 
have the honor to announce my engagement to Miss 
Marjorie Sayles.” 

There was a breathless moment while the gathering 
assimilated the declaration of the beaming reformer. 
Then there broke forth a gusto of applause, with many 
little exclamations of surprise and approval. 

Mr. Morrison Sayles, square of shoulder and firm of 
jaw, sat motionless, but smiling. Marjorie was blushing 
vividly, and her very tears reflected the happiness in her 
soul. Doctor Calory scowled and nodded to Miss Murilla, 
who sat at his side; and then both smiled and looked as 
wise as people do who want to say: “We have had 
reasons to suspect it. ’ ’ 

Helen Merry — now Mrs. Walter Harrison — showed 
her emotions by running over and kissing her sister-in- 
law. The bridegroom, shaking the hand and slapping 
the shoulder of his friend, exclaimed: 

“Well, what an old rascal you are, Hal! And you 
kept us all in the dark! ’ ’ 

To which Hal Bower replied, in his rumbling voice: 

“I’m afraid I’m dreaming, just as you seem to be. 
But if we are, let’s agree never to wake up! ” 







































